


Scandinavian Nights

by Spylace



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Ableist Language, Age Regression/De-Aging, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Gore, Brainwashing, Captain America: The Winter Soldier Spoilers, Child Abuse, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gen, Government Conspiracy, Identity Issues, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Memory Alteration, Memory Loss, Original Character Death(s), Past Torture, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape/Non-con Elements, Underage Sex, Victim Blaming, Violence, and other such slurs, desperate best friend!steve, kid!Bucky, paternal!rumlow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-05
Updated: 2014-06-05
Packaged: 2018-01-22 02:15:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 26,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1572365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spylace/pseuds/Spylace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Remember who you are.”</p><p>But what does the Winter Soldier remember? </p><p>“I don’t know.”</p><p>It’s the wrong answer. The slap reverberates through the room like a gunshot. </p><p>The answer should have been nothing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> In which it’s children’s day and I’m obliged to write something cavity-inducing but now it's bordering on like 10k+ words so I regret everything.
> 
> Inspired by [Toofargal](http://toofargal.tumblr.com/)'s work of art on Tumblr. I personally don't ship Winter Bones but the idea that Bucky had someone watching out for him in Hydra appeals to me. 
> 
> Yes, there will be noncon/dubcon(implied) of the childhood variety so if that's not your cup of tea, back button. Or you can simply read this part. This part is pretty clean.

Light is flashed in his face. It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust.

By that time, the asset, satisfied, has moved out of range and another takes place. This one sits to his left and talks to him like words matter but he lets the sounds wash over him because they are soothing and the beat of them is familiar.

He stretches his joints, loosening the packed frost from under his nails. The world snaps into focus. He understands that he is awake.

Control however, looks displeased at his swift recovery. He does not know why. Mission parameters have been fulfilled. When no praises are forthcoming, he turns to the man on his left for explanations.

The reaction fouls Control’s mood further.

“What do you remember?”

The question gives him a pause.

What does the Winter Soldier remember?

He has a vague recollection of sunshine yellow and pale hoarfrost, bright light and dancing girls. But these images slip past him like colorful fish. He is left with nothing but for a feeling that he should know, he should remember and gnawing anxiety that the man in front of him—Control, Alexander Pierce, Hydra Commander, Shield Director, one daughter, two grandchildren, wife deceased, connections to Baron Von Strucker, Alexander Lukin, RAID, the Hand—wants him to hurt.

His throat bobs.

“I don’t know.”

It’s the wrong answer.

He has been ready for pain but the slap reverberates through the room like a gunshot. He cannot forget the stab of recoil compact his muscles. The Winter Soldier hasn’t succeeded after all. He is a failure.

“Your work has been a gift to mankind.” Control holds a stylized scepter in his hands and the Winter Soldier spares a thought to what kind of secrets it holds. Leather cushions stick to his spine as he is strapped in and he unclenches his fists long enough to latch onto the chair arms. The one under his metal hand gives easily but the one in his right he finds solace. There is no purchase in the smooth steel.

He notices for the first time that the floor under him is grated. For what? For blood? Fluids? For piss? “You have shaped the century. And I need you to do it one more time.”

The mouth guard slides in.

What does the Winter Soldier remember?

“Be the bright sword which defends us.”

He taps his collarbone twice.

“Remember who you are.”

+++

The room is transformed blue with a master’s brushstroke. Everyone flinches when the Winter Soldier screams.

There is a heavy clang when the metal arm falls off the twitching frame. They all raise their guns. The scientists speak in gibberish when their measuring devices explode one by one in their face. Rollins strides forward to pull Pierce back and he thinks quickly to salvage the situation.

What does the Winter Soldier remember?

The answer should have been nothing.

The Winter Soldier is a weapon, a parody of the man he first met fifteen years ago when he was new. The easy camaraderie has been destroyed by ice, recognition by blank looks, loyalty with strains of time.

Rumlow has seen this scene play out many times. He knows not to expect anything.

When the light clears, in the Winter Soldier’s place sits a little boy, perfectly formed with clear skin, upturned nose, and eyes the color of glass. Sweat sticks his hair in a ragged cap around his skull. He looks from the doctors and their sinister instruments to him and his team in menacing black and finally to Pierce whom sadly, looks to be the sanest out of all of them.

“Hey mister, who are you?”

+++

“How can this have happened?”

The quacks stick him with all sorts of pins and needles exclaiming at everything from the Winter Soldier’s spit content to his shoe size. In short, the kids are having a blast while the senior scientists bear the brunt of Pierce’s anger. The Winter Soldier sits still like a puppet.

This is not how a child behaves.

The faint recollections of civilian life tells him children are loud, boisterous, messy things. It’s unnatural to see one who will not cry when strange fingers probe his mouth and other orifices. Beside him, he senses Rollins getting pissed off at the scientists’ casual snubs. He is not the only one.

“Do you know where you are?” Dr. Healey asks.

The Winter Soldier shakes his head no.

Impatient, Healy asks again.

“Do you know who you are?”

Again, negative.

To Rumlow, there is no discernable difference between the child and the man. It might even be better this way because that means he doesn’t have to read _loss_ in a man he once considered a friend. With a child, absolution translates to confusion and the boy is pliant, biddable as the good doctor jots down the notes with his free hand. Seeking his eyes, the Winter Soldier holds out his arms to be held and the balding man steps backwards with a scowl as though youth might be a catching thing.

The Winter Soldier’s combat shirt is big and slides off his shoulders. Rumlow uses a knife to cut the sleeves into strips and tie them around his two whole arms. Only when Rollins makes a slight, choked off sound does he realize how intimidating he might look but there is no fear in the boy’s eyes. Maybe Pierce did succeed after all and the boy does not know enough to be scared.

But it’s one thing to hold a grown man hostage, it’s another to lay a hand on a child. Pierce looks ready to blow a casket when one of the eggheads, a youngish guy who looks like he shoots espressos direct into his veins, argues that it’s not a loss. A child can be molded to be loyal much better than their mechanical apparatus.

The idea would have merit if the Winter Soldier didn’t look about five.

While Agent Allen stifles a suspicious sounding cough into his shoulder, Rumlow examines the Winter Soldier for himself.

The Winter Soldier is young, very young, skin and bones balanced on a wiry frame, ribs that a man can wrap his hand around, bird-fragile with two missing teeth. The surgical table can’t be too comfortable but the Winter Soldier doesn’t want to sit in the chair, he’d rather stand and get his soft feet sliced up by the grates and Rumlow wants to know exactly how much the kid remembers because he shouldn’t remember pain. They wipe him every time they put him under and again when he comes out. But apparently, the kid doesn’t remember enough to know that grenades are bad because he’s fiddling with the pin and Rumlow grabs his wrists, securing them against his hip.

“Am I in trouble?” The Winter Soldier asks, wiggling the ends of his fingers.

“No kid, you are not in trouble.”

“Oh, who are you?”

Rumlow wonders if it’s too late to pass him off to Rollins.

“You can call me Brock.” He decides.

The kid brightens.

“I’m...” He scrunches up his face. “I don’t remember.”

It’s bizarre how accepting this kid is. He’s seen men break down from Hydra’s ministrations, good men, strong men, bad men, great men. But this kid with his soft blue eyes and a messy mop of hair doesn’t seem to notice that something is wrong. He would be a great operative if he was maybe a decade older. Rumlow cannot explain the dread that stacks in his belly.

“That’s fine. I can give you a name if you want.”

“Alright.”

The blame game ends and now one of the scientists want to see if Loki’s staff can reverse it. But the magical doohickey coughs up sparks and nothing else. It’s like it needs batteries and it just ran out.

Pierce takes one look at their child soldier and flushes red.

The change is alarming.

The Winter Soldier stiffens with fear and immediately jumps off the table. Uncoordinated, limbs too loose and gangly beneath him, he scatters scalpels and needles all across the floor. He cuts open his foot and it bleeds badly but the kid doesn’t notice. He throws off a salute, a cross between traditional military and the distinct two arms of Hydra that has him pumping his fists from his forehead.

Despite his fury, even Pierce softens at this display. Rumlow spies a slight twitch to his lips.

To the doctors, Pierce orders “Fix this.”

He doesn’t need to threaten them. They all know the cost of failure.

Their best weapon has been disabled. They must regroup. With Project Insight due to take off in a few weeks, they must be careful now more than ever. Despite the positive endorsement from the World Security Council or maybe because of it, Fury (Fury was a contrary, paranoid bastard) has been sniffing around borders, sending his pet Russian bitch to do the dirty work.

But that leaves Fury in a vulnerable position. Coulson at a black site and his trusty attack dogs globetrotting, there is no one he can trust. No one except Hill who has her hands full managing day-to-day operations. Fury is wily like an old catfish but he will fall in line soon enough. They don’t need the Winter Soldier.

The problem is the Winter Soldier himself. Rumlow knows better than anyone what happens to those considered expendable by the organization. And even if the Winter Soldier does not remember, he has saved their bacon one too many times to send in peace.

“I trust you know your orders?”

“Yessir.”

Pierce pulls out a handkerchief and cleans his glasses.

“Until the situation has been taken care of, I do not want to hear about it.”

“Understood sir.”

“Good” Pierce blows on the glass, peering at something Rumlow cannot perceive.

“Agent Sitwell is meeting with one of our allies. Make sure the transaction goes smoothly. And take Agent Rollins with you. It’ll be good practice.”

“Of course sir.”

+++

The Winter Soldier is probably seven according to the battered copy of _What to Expect When You’re Expecting_ they snuck out of the lobby. According to the scientists, Rumlow really doesn’t care what they think at this point. The Winter Soldier’s tiny but they wave away his concern. They tell him he needs better nutrition and that’s when things get awkward because food of all things has never been an issue. They just gave him booster shots and an IV before sending him out to town.

Rollins does the first intelligent thing he’s ever seen the man do and that’s to crouch to the little guy’s level, trying to smile around his ugly mug even though it doesn’t help. But some part of the Winter Soldier’s lizard brain must recognize this as nonthreatening because he is relaxed, bouncy even as he flutters his toe against the growing pool of blood.

“Kid, you hungry? What do you want to eat?”

Rumlow shoots the would-be-doctors a scathing look before one of his agents bring him a roll of bandages and tape.

The Winter Soldier thinks for a moment before shaking his head.

“I don’t know.”

“Well, let’s go find out.”

Rumlow sterilizes the cut with rubbing alcohol but the boy barely bats an eye. It might be because he’s used to pain, or numb to it. He doesn’t know what’s going on in that towheaded skull of his.

He tells one of the least deficient looking guards to find him kid-sized clothes and get rid of the arm. It’s still twitching on the ground, a dab of blood from where it was connected to the Winter Soldier. It gives him the creeps.

Rollins cradles the Winter Soldier in his arms. It’s touching somehow, having no place in their lives.

This can’t possibly end well.

+++

It’s fascinating just how much food the Winter Soldier can put away. He is apparently an ambidextrous, equal-opportunity animal who squirrels away more food in his pockets than he actually eats. When Rollins, _Rollins_ , patiently asks why he’s doing that—Rumlow suddenly remembers Rollins had a life before this, an infant son dead of SIDS—the Winter Soldier answers that he’s saving it for a kid named Steve because Steve needs to grow big and strong so he doesn’t get sick.

“Like Captain America?”

This draws a blank from the boy and it makes Rumlow uneasy. Meanwhile, Rollins assures him that there’s plenty to eat—please don’t stick that doughnut down your pants. The Winter Soldier licks at his greasy fingers and picks at the toast.

“We should call him something.” Rollins suggests out of the blue.

“Like what?” Rumlow finds himself responding, spearing a leaf of lettuce.

The Winter Soldier with his chipmunk cheeks looks up at them with expectant blue eyes.

“Wasn’t there a name we used to sneak him into... St. Petersburg ’01?”

“There were many names.” Rumlow replies tiredly. “Why can’t we call him the Winter Soldier?”

“He’s a kid.”

“Maybe they’ll think it’s a joke.”

“Names are no jokes.” Rollins says seriously.

But while Rollins is clearly the more competent child-minder, the Winter Soldiers attaches himself to him and Rollins, not being too bright, calls him wife and gets punched in the head.

The doctors haven’t called them down yet which means that they’re dead and he should duck and cover for the wrath of Pierce or they’ve got bad news and obviously too chicken to do anything about it.

“We don’t know how to fix it.” The young genius who proposed the child soldier idea says.

It’s the latter.

“The staff?”

Another chimes in lieu of silence. A brave man then.

“It might make it worse. We think that the Winter Soldier somehow countermanded Director Pierce’s attempts to manipulate his memories. When Director Pierce told him _remember_...”

“...he actually remembered, son of a bitch.”

“He remembered being seven?” Rollins asks dubiously.

A scientist shrugs.

“He remembered _something_.”

Rumlow remembers the words. _Be the bright sword which defends us. Remember who you are._

Hell of a thing to say to a man with no memories. But what did the Winter Soldier remember? What is he defending?

The Winter Soldier sleeps peacefully in his lap with a jacket placed over his head and he thinks that this is no place for a child to be. But before long he is shaking his head because the Winter Soldier isn’t a child, he is a weapon. He is a man who has been taught to embrace pain, the world is not a kind place. Rumlow gently shakes the kid awake despite Rollin’s look of disapproval.

“Is it time to go home?”

The scientists put the Winter Soldier through his paces and the boy accepts it with good grace. He doesn’t complain, not even when Rollins is pacing like a leashed tiger just outside the examination room. Rumlow stomps on his foot just to get him to stop but the man shrugs him off.

They hear the kid say, “If I’m good, can I go home?”

“Where is home?” A doctor asks and the kid says sleepily, with mom and dad.

It strikes him with a pang that even the Winter Soldier must have been a man once, before Hydra, before being forced on ice. He must have been young. No one knows his exact age. Rumlow is a level 8 agent and the records are sealed to him. Probably only Pierce knows but he doubts that the man cares. There is a database hidden in an underground bunker in Camp Leigh. Maybe Dr. Zola can shed light on some questions.

Out loud he says, “Where the hell is he going to sleep?”

+++

The scientists insist the kid sleep where Winter Soldier used to sleep. Even Agent Russo, hardly the most affectionate human being, thinks this is a bad idea.

“He doesn’t even fit.”

For all the practical reasons of course.

“Well” Says a man with a strong Texan accent, “We have to observe him.”

Rollins looks like he’s about to say something so he holds up his hand.

“Sir”

“Rollins, enough.”

There is no use getting attached.

“They know what they’re doing.”

+++

He should have known it would end up being a disaster.

Rumlow’s up playing online poker because he can’t sleep. It feels a little like the walls are closing in and the nicotine patches aren’t doing their job. He decides to step out a bit and go on a run, get laid, have a drag, not necessarily in that order. Terrible habit smoking, he’s been trying to kick it for years. He remembers the Winter Soldier used to smoke as well inside the bathrooms because that’s where the ventilation was. So that’s where he is headed when someone bowls him over and steps on his box of cigarettes.

“I’m sorry sir! I was not looking sir! Punish me however you see fit sir!” The kid’s about to piss his pants or as good as he throws off a salute.

“What’s going on?” He says dangerous and low because Pierce hates smokers. It’s impossible to sneak a cig in the building without raising all sorts of alarms. It’s supposedly done in the name of fire safety and national security. Rumlow calls bullshit on the last.

“Sir, the Winter Soldier is missing sir!”

“Quiet” Rumlow hisses, looking around to see if they’ve been overhead. Unlikely since the lower levels adjoining the labs are reserved for STRIKE team use only. “How the fuck did you lose a five-year-old in a closed room?!”

“He um...” Probie looks like he’s about to cry. Rumlow stares him down until he breaks. “He climbed the ventilation shaft sir! We were unaware until Doctor Healy raised the alarm!”

He lets out a short curse.

“You will be punished for your failures.”

Probie cringed.

“Yessir”

Rumlow tilts his head back to look at the ceiling. There must be hundreds of interconnecting corridors all leading to the outside world. He’s never had much interest in architecture. The only ones with enough knowledge to go spelunking in the Triskelion’s bowels are in Shield’s pockets, not Hydra’s. Never let someone do what you want done right. A lesson to live by. Certainly. Once he’s found the Winter Soldier.

“Get me a blue print, now.” He adds irritably, “Tell Russo and Allen they’re on cleaning duty. Jesus Christ.”

+++

It’s easy enough to follow the kid’s trail. The ventilation shafts have never been cleaned and even though a couple of forks are a tight squeeze, he gets by. He needs to go on a diet.

Two hundred meters in, he hits a dead end and he starts to back out wondering where he went wrong when he looks up. Shit.

It’s like being in basic all over again as he climbs through the top levels. He wants to know how the kid did it. Without the arm. How does the kid remember to sneak past security using the one place that has no cameras and turns his shortness in stature into an advantage?

What does the Winter Soldier remember?

Rumlow breathes a sigh of relief, sneezing as he kicks his way out of some poor desk jockey’s office. He sees dusty footprints on the marble and follows it to the adjoining room where the Winter Soldier sits placidly at a ground level window, one whole step away from the outside world. But Rumlow realizes belatedly that even with the memories, the past decades of his life have been spent here in this building. The Triskelion is all he has ever known.

The Winter Soldier wouldn’t even know what to do with himself against the fluorescent lights of the DC nightlife and isn’t that a sad thing? A grown man who barely knows himself?

“I remembered something.” The Winter Soldier says blearily.

“Kid?”

“I remembered my name.”

Rumlow pulls the boy into his lap. He finds that he doesn’t mind the weight. He likes the solidity of something alive pulsing against his chest.

“What is your name soldier?”

The boy’s eyelashes flutter when they close on top of his baby blues.

“It’s James.”

+++

He takes the newly-christened James back to his quarters. No he doesn’t know if it’s true. It could be something made up or embedded deep inside his mind. Maybe it was a cover ID for all those lonely missions before Hydra set him up with STRIKE teams.

Let the men sweat it out a bit, he thinks. Their fault for losing the kid in the first place.

On the way, Rumlow passes a vending machine and scrounges around his pockets for quarters and a dollar bill. He grabs a bottle of Gatorade because the kid looks bad. He’ll never hear the end of it from Rollins if it gets worse.

“Can I have that too?” James asks shyly, his eyes drooping, pointing at a box of frosted pop tarts.

Rumlow shrugs, thinking nothing of it. He puts the extra quarters in and lets James push the buttons.

The kid just seems excited to have something in his hand so Rumlow lets him. It’s not doing anyone harm. He pulls the first aid kit from beneath his bed and cleans James’ foot which has begun to bleed again from his adventures. Away from sterile lights and prying eyes, James allows himself to wince and hurt.

It’s not a good sign.

Rumlow thinks about taking a shower. He’s got who knows how many years of accumulative dirt on him and James is no better. Rollins would know what to do. He would not, under the pain of death, go to Rollins for help. In the end, he just settles for washing James with a wet towel and running water through his hair. Good enough. The kid’s survived worse.

James drinks half of blue Gatorade before falling asleep. Rumlow finishes it off. They sleep side by side.

+++

“This is going in my scrapbook.”

Rumlow’s sinuses are screaming murder.

“What time is it?” He groans, carefully uncurling himself from the sleeping boy at his side.

There is a flash. Rumlow will kill him.

“Time to put our good soldier back if you don’t want Pierce down here again.”

Right, it wasn’t a dream.

James is awake. Rumlow wipes the grit from his eyes when a bag lands on his chest.

“Here you go bud, breakfast of champions.”

Whatever scathing remark at the sight of laffy taffy dies at the misty-eyed look in his friend’s face. He’d never seen the man so animated for one thing. James simply looks fascinated at the colors.

“You can have one.” He allows. “Wouldn’t want you to spoil your appetite. I’m going to take a shower. Be a good kid and listen to what Uncle Rollins says.”

“Come on baby winter.” Rollins says gleefully. Rumlow realizes his mistake. “We’re going to have a real fun time.”

+++

It seems that nothing can go right when it comes to James. Not to his satisfaction anyway.

After his shower, he goes down to the labs to find Rollins strangling the life out of one doctor and scaring the next. James, red-faced and sobbing, stops immediately when he roars “What the fuck is going on here?!”

The youngish doctor from the day before, Adams, edged away guiltily with a beaker of blood. Even to his unlicensed eyes, that seems a tad too much.

He smiles viciously, collecting James from the table. Rollins falls in line, his features tight and veins standing out against his neck.

“I hope you’re happy because that’s all you’re getting out of him. From now on, no one lays a finger on J... the Winter Soldier without my permission. Is that understood?”

A couple of people grumble.

The smart ones are quicker to nod.

“Is that understood?”

Adams jumps, drops of blood spilling from the glass.

Healy nods, sending Adams away.

“Understood.”

+++

He is hungry but not hungry enough to brave commissary where people will be curious enough to comment on the kid squeezed between him and Rollins. Wouldn’t want people to get the wrong idea after all. He had enough associates around DC to whom the news would spread like wildfire. The situation wasn’t exactly something he was keen to share.

Rumlow takes James to a nearby pizza place. Rollins tags along. He chooses the Hawaiian pizza because he has no taste. James grows wide-eyed at the selection and picks plain cheese. Rumlow orders prosciutto and fig pizza because he plans on fattening the kid up before they banish him into the freezer.

“Would you like the family discount sir?” Their waitress chirps cheerily.

He shrugs. Sure, why not? Anything to lessen the impact on his wallet.

“Your son is so cute!” She coos, squeezing Jame’s cheeks. James does little more than to blink which is a lot more than what the other kids are doing. He feels proud that the kid is well-behaved and a little more embarrassed because James is not a child. This is temporary and if the brainiacs they have at the Triskelion have a modicum of self-preservation, they will fix this yesterday.

After paying the bills, James stuck to his legs like a leech as though Rumlow is about to forget him any time soon, he takes the boy to the nearby Smithsonian museum. It’s a nice day. It feels good just to stretch his legs and watch Rollins grumble as he flags down a cab.

The Smithsonian has an exhibition of Captain America. James seems enraptured by all the red, white and blue but personally, Rumlow has seen it before. Babysitting duty after the Battle of New York when Steve Rogers and the other members of the Avengers Initiative were hailed as heroes.

Rumlow is examining a mural of the Howling Commandos when he realizes James is gone. Panic sets in. The kid is practically an amnesiac. He is defenseless. Anyone could have taken him. He is about to grab a security guard and demand that she help him search when he sees the waifish figure of the boy running past people’s legs to launch himself at a mannequin. Rumlow intercepts and James squirm like an eel, fighting mad to get out of his grip.

He realizes how this must look and tries to get the boy to calm down.

James heaves, face red like he’s about to throw up.

“I saw Steve!”

“Steve? Kid, you can’t just go off wandering on your own.”

“But I saw.” The boy says determinedly. “I saw Steve.”

Rumlow tries to be patient, his heartbeat just now starting to die down.

“Who is Steve?”

Well there was Steve Rogers but it couldn’t be Captain America. The man’s barely been unfrozen for two years.

“He’s my best friend.” James explains. “He lives a floor below us.”

Which means nothing to him. This Steve is probably dead or good as.

“We’ll find Steve okay?” Rumlow says reluctantly though he shouldn’t feed the boy’s fantasy.

“See no” James protests when he is held in his arms. “ _Steve._ ”

“Right, no more pizza for you.”

+++

Rumlow wakes with a start.

James stares guiltily from where he is tucked against his chest. He explains, “I had a bad dream.” And latches on so he can’t shake him off even if he had a mind to. James is singlehandedly fueling Rollin’s box of blackmail and there’s nothing he can do about it.

“What about?” He yawns because he really needs the sleep.

“It was really cold.” James confides. He doesn’t quite connect the significance of the words. “I think Steve was there.”

+++

“No kid” Rumlow sighs, unraveling the kid’s fingers from the trigger.

The safety is on and the kid has an excellent stance. A holdover from being the Winter Soldier? When Cooper was active, his pet theory was that the Winter Soldier was homegrown from a petri dish as a weapon. He’s starting to think that he was _right_.

“I could have a gun.” The boy pouts. “I could be useful.”

“You’re plenty useful.” Rumlow replies, going over his jaw with an electric razor. “Ask Rollins.”

James seems fascinated and he lets the kid shave the bitty hairs off his legs.

“Rollins has a gun.”

“He’s bigger.” He says. “And I regret the fact every day.”

“I can have a gun when I’m older?”

A smile freezes on his face. Like the morning thaw, he slowly takes the razor from the boy’s hands and sets him down on the floor.

“When you’re older.” He agrees.

+++

The plan is that Sitwell goes on the ship. He makes the transaction on the ship. He gets the hell off the ship before the pirates tow it and sell it off for parts.

“Guess the pirates were a little early.”

“Who is it?” Rumlow asks in a clipped voice. He sees James raise his head in alarm. It’s hard to miss him. He’s the only spot of color in their office. The designated babysitter startles at the movement and tells him sharply to keep his head down.

Rumlow frowns. He’ll be having words with Agent Skomo.

“Batroc the Leaper.” Russo snaps off in her crisp voice. “Algerian. Merc.”

“So he’s not doing this alone.”

“Not unless he’s developed a fetish for Swedish furniture.” She says coolly. “Our cover was a cargo ship for IKEA.”

“Maybe he’s redecorating?” Rollins interjects.

Everyone ignores him.

“He could be peddling information.” Miller says in a silky voice.

“They can’t possibly know what’s on that ship.” Russo says flatly.

“They’ll find out soon enough.” Miller argues. “Sitwell was never good at interrogations.”

“Alright, alright, calm down.” Rumlow interrupts. “Orders from higher up. The Black Widow and Captain America have been dispatched to the Mediterranean to assist in search and rescue. We are to join them in a joint-op to recover the ship and bring Agent Sitwell to safety.”

“Fuck civilians.” Russo says crudely.

Rumlow shoots her a sharp look.

“And unless there are any more constructive comments, this meeting is over. You know your jobs.”

“Hail Hydra!” The agents salute.

For once he can’t shake the chill that prickles his skin.

He lowers his arms and passes his clipboard to Rollins. It’s the other man’s first op with the illustrious Captain. He’s in for quite a ride. Rollins is not on good terms with the Black Widow.

Rumlow notices that Skomo has been joined by Porter who elbows the redhead in the ribs and hisses in warning “Keep your hands to yourself. He’s Rumlow’s.”

“No shit, really. Didn’t know the dude swung that way. Think he’ll share?”

“Wait your turn, he’ll tire of him soon enough.”

He can’t have possibly heard...

Rollins grabs his shoulder. He looks as sickened as he does but he shakes his head.

“Don’t bother. Makes keeping the kid safe easier.”

He snarls.

“Pull Huffman from the roster. I don’t care if he complains. If there’s a hair out of place when we get back, I’ll feed him his ball sack.”

Rollins looks absurdly happy.

“You’re the boss.”

+++

“But why can’t I go with you?” James asks when Rumlow comes to collect him from Skomo and Porter.

Even the kid thinks there’s something off about the two men. He buries his face against the side of his neck and breathes a sigh of relief. Rumlow doesn’t care what the other STRIKE agents think as he checks the kid over to see nothing’s wrong.

“It’s dangerous.” He tries to explain.

“I went with you before.” The boy points out, as close to as whining as he’d ever seen from him.

This is supposed to be good. This is progress.

Maybe Rumlow is just not a father material.

“You were bigger.”

James pouts.

“Like with the gun.”

The gun—oh right, the argument from earlier.

“Like with the gun.” He nods.

“I want to join the army.” James grumbles, wrapping himself tighter around Rumlow’s neck.

“James.” He warns.

The boy quickly lets go.

“Hey, it’s only two days.”

James sniffles.

“Huffman is nice?”

He has no idea if Huffman is nice. But Huffman is not a piece of shit human being who perves on little boys. Sexual appetites aside, the man knows he’s disposable. Rumlow may not be able to cut Skomo or Porter into little pieces for looking at James wrong, but Huffman is someone he can dump off the side of the highway without anyone batting an eye.

James hardly seems assured.

“You’ll come back?”

Rumlow squeezes.

“Promise.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Visual inspiration [here](http://toofargal.tumblr.com/post/83651207934/im-literally-shipping-bucky-rumlow-right-now) and [here](http://toofargal.tumblr.com/post/84902912330/winter-baby-sister).

Rumlow nearly laughs at the expression on Rollins’ face.

They infiltrate the boat. Cap’s done all the hard work.

Agent Sitwell scowls “what the hell took you guys so long?”

+++

It takes them four days to get back to DC.

He’s eager to see James. A fact he doesn’t share with Rollins even as he matches the taller man’s steps stride for stride. Rumlow is in desperate need of a shower but it’s been twice the number of days he’s supposed to have been away. He has no idea how James will react. Children are strange, Rollins explains. It’s always good to have souvenirs.

Rumlow’s got a plushy rabbit tucked under one arm as an apology. Russo bitched the entire time she was handing it over.

On the way, Healy, yawning and grumpy from being dragged out of bed at ass o’ clock in the morning, gives them to brief. It’s nothing good. He expected as much and he will feed the idiots in charge their own cocks before the day is out.

James he learns, has been uncooperative. He doesn’t sleep at night, or in the morning, or in the afternoon, he doesn’t eat, he constantly pesters everyone with questions. The boy is a danger to himself and those around him. Huffman has been a neglectful guardian indeed if the kid can go in and out of rooms like a goddamned ghost. It doesn’t bode well for him. James has the knowledge of the Winter Soldier wired to his brain but he is young enough to be creative. He’s made no less than a dozen attempts at escape so far. There have been punitive measures. The results have been mixed.

Hydra’s motto is that for every head cut off, two more grow in its place. It’s the same principle of discipline. To those who fuck up, there are others who can take their place. The Winter Soldier was irreplaceable. The child James is not.

James is not in his quarters, of course not. He is down in the labs again playing the good labrat to doctors and scientists who don’t realize they can’t draw the same amount of blood from a child as they did with a man. His breath catches in his throat when he looks down at the operating theater where James lies still as a corpse, his lips blue and skin almost translucent. He doesn’t resemble anything close to being alive as Rumlow shoves the doctors away, sending beakers and vials and test tubes crashing to the floor.

“Agent Rumlow!” Dr. Healy protests. “This is sensitive work! We need the data if we want to recover the Winter Soldier!”

James mouths a series of ‘no’s at the rising voices and tries to get away, squeezing his eyes shut when Rumlow checks for a pulse. His breath flutters weakly beneath his palms, a hand comes up as though to deny him but falls to the wayside He sees bruises stamped across his wrists.

Tearing the IV from the poles, Rumlow pushes James and the plushy rabbit into Rollins’ waiting arms.

“Take him.” He orders.

“You can’t do that!”

“This is highly irregular!”

“We need to do more tests!”

The doctors, scientists, quacks and charlatans, all of them, begin speaking out in turn, trying to explain what they’re doing is beyond Rumlow’s field of expertise. He grasps that he doesn’t care if this is the way things are done. They should have never touched James in the first place. Pierce told him to keep his hands off the research personnel but that doesn’t mean that he can’t make it hurt. The security at the door silently look away as he undoes his armor.

+++

Rollins is wringing his hands helplessly by the time he gets back to his quarters. James startles and scoots further back in the corner, the plushy rabbit abandoned in the middle of the room.

He doesn’t know what to do.

Rumlow would have understood if the kid was pissed, four days is a long time. He recalls his own father breaking promises one by one and how cleanly a child can hate but James just stares at him with trembling lips, disbelief in his watery blue eyes. He takes a step forward and the kid throws up in his lap, covering his mouth as though to stifle his screams.

“Jesus” Rollins says and goes in search of a fresh towel and a change of clothes.

Rumlow sniffs the air. It’s stale which means that the room hasn’t been occupied in the four days he’s been gone. Where was James during that time? In the labs? No wonder he’s freaking the fuck out.

But Rumlow also notices that Rollins is allowed in the general vicinity while he is not. It stings a little but he figures he deserves it. Things start to go wrong when James shrinks from Rollins touch, particularly when he is trying to undress him.

It feels like a lead weight has been dropped in his stomach.

The kid is scared stiff of both of them. He’s scrambling for cover under the bed, in the tub, behind the bathroom door trying hard not to make a sound. Yet, when they distance themselves, turn to give him space, he peers out at them with confused, pleading eyes, unable to convey what horrors happened to him in the four days he was gone.

They should have been back two days ago. Damn the Black Widow for dropping the ball.

“C’mon kid, it’s a right mess down there. You’ll get sick. Believe me when I say you don’t want shots for those.”

“Shit” Rumlow curses. “This isn’t working. I’m calling Shield medical.”

It is clearly the wrong thing to say.

The kid suddenly launches himself out from behind the bed, driving the air out of his lungs. Skinny arms dig into his side, the kid only looks small, he’s gotten heavy. He still hasn’t said anything but Rumlow gets the gist. No doctors. Doctors bad. Considering all they’ve done for him in his brief life is try to bleed him dry, he doesn’t blame him. James shakes like a leaf when he places a hand on his head. Rumlow quickly takes it off. Rollins draws a sharp breath.

By chance, the boy’s shirt rides up the nobs of his spine and Rumlow sees red. There are oval fingerprints in varying colors overlapping his entire back. He can’t figure out why it looks wrong until he does and the least of all is because he’s a very young child. James is the Winter Soldier and he is supposed to be untouchable. He was Rumlow’s responsibility and he has failed. The area behind his jaws are darkened, the patches of his scalp red and he doesn’t even think about what lies below the belt when he strips the boy of his shirt, clenching his fists so he doesn’t suddenly lash out.

Rollins lets out an anguished moan. It’s as though the man has found his son dead all over again in his crib. He kneels down, hands flexing and curling at his side.

“Who the hell did this?” Rumlow asks softly, touching his wrists. “Who?”

James shakes his head, unable or perhaps unwilling to answer.

He seems ashamed. Hydra despised weakness. But this isn’t weakness, this is torture. His hands are hardly clean but he can’t conceive doing this to a child.

Rumlow shakes the kid and screams “Tell me!”

The boy is terrified but he can’t stop. He doesn’t stop until Rollins clips him in the jaw, drawing James from reach.

“Calm the fuck down Brock.”

In the other man’s burly arms, James lets out a soft noise of distress. It’s the first sound he’s made since he and Rollins got back and it’s sick that he’s the cause of it.

“Jesus” Rumlow says, sudden realization hitting him like a gut punch. He buries his face in his hand. “Jesus fucking _Christ_.”

“He can’t stay here.” Rollins repeats over and over again as he rocks James in his arms. Rumlow snaps “Don’t you think I know that?!” which has the boy ducking from view, hugging Rollin’s neck tight like he might disappear. James has tired himself out but he’s not quite asleep. He stares out from a fringe of ratty brown hair, longer than he remembers it being, wondering what Rumlow will do next.

He reins in his temper for the kid’s sake.

Rollins asks “What do we do?”

“ _We_ do nothing.” Rumlow says brooding. “This one is on me.”

He breathes out, eyes calculating as he stares at Rollins, James and the door.

“Get in contact with Striker. Tell him it’s Winter. He’s calling in a favor.”

+++

As Rollins goes to collect on old bets and favors, Rumlow silently prepares. He keeps an eye on James, makes sure there is a fresh supply of water, sandwiches and fruit and the odd banana-flavored candy he likes so much.

He shifts the roster for agents and security across different levels. It’s a delicate work. Privileges of rank but it made him too visible. Pierce might be wondering what he is doing up so early but not for long. The window of opportunity is small but he has been in worse conditions. They have been in worse conditions. He just needs to keep James safe, that’s all.

James is on his bed, curled up into a ball, hugging the rabbit so tight stuffing might come crawling out of its ears. This is not the first time Rumlow’s seen a victim of violence, abuse, or rape but it was never someone closest to him. No one he cared about. He was always an outsider or the participant.

He thought he knew pain but this is an entirely different shade. It aches in a different part. The kid hiccups and sobs when he feels Rumlow _look_ at him. It hurts, he’s not even the person who’s been hurt and it hurts.

After wiping his drives he sits on the corner of his bed, the stiff mattress dipping slightly as James shrinks away. “Shh” Rumlow sooths, uncharacteristic of him perhaps but it’s their lives on the line. Time is all they have until Rollins makes contact with the few friends they have in their back pocket and gives him the go. It’s the only time he’s got to make the matters right. With luck, they might even get out of this alive.

“I’m sorry” He says quietly. “You were right. I should have taken you.”

The sniffling slows as James’ breathing evens out.

“This time, I’m going to take you with me but you have to promise me something.”

He swallows. “You have to tell me if someone tries to hurt you. Even if it’s me. Promise me that and I’ll take you with me next time.”

James shakes his head in a wordless denial.

Rumlow grows frustrated.

“James”

The boy shakes his head frantically.

“Do you know who hurt you? Skomo? Porter? Adams?”

Each name has James curling tighter and tighter into a ball.

He can’t take this, he stands up.

“Please don’t” James breaks out shrilly. “I’ll be good! I promise! I won’t fight anymore! Take me back! I want to go home! I want Steve!”

The boy is sobbing and Rumlow is helpless as to stop it. He pulls the kid in his arms, the rabbit and all and just holds him until he calms down. The side of his neck becomes wet, sticky with snot as James grinds his forehead against the bone, in so much pain he can barely breathe. Rumlow closes his eyes hoping that somehow, he can share the hurt.

After serving two tours in Iraq, he was proud of himself for doing without the head shrinkers. He wishes now that he had gone. Maybe he’d know what to say then.

The kid’s crying fade into tired whimpers.

“Better?” He asks.

James nods.

“They can’t hurt you, you know that.”

James nods again.

Rumlow does not need the boy’s confirmation to find out who laid hands on him. But unfortunately for him, time is up. He will leave punishment to Rollin’s discretion. He has a feeling that the other man will enjoy it.

+++

Midday when shift changes to accommodate lunch, there is a minor fire in the refectory because Rollins forgot to take the foil off of his burger. And while the big man dances around becoming a nuisance to all those involved, Rumlow decides to make a break for it.

“We’re going to play a little game alright?”

James nods into his collarbone.

“You’re going to hide under my jacket and pretend you’re not there. If no one finds you, I’ll give you a candy—the banana ones.”

The kid nods again, his mouth pinched shut like a bud.

“Ready?”

James hides.

“Let’s go.”

+++

It’s a testament to his reputation no one stops to ask him about the obvious bulge in his front. People who do stare, their eyes quickly veer to their feet. Rumlow grunts at the various greetings he receives, one arm tucked around James as he turns his guns in. He can see the camera swivel in his direction and knows that he’s running out of time. There’s only so much stupid he can pull.

Thankfully, there’s a car waiting outside. He almost passes it by except the driver whistles at him with a coy nod. It’s Hansen, thank god, stretched out in a convertible, ostentatious enough that curious gazes slide off the cherry-red finish. It’s completely undefendable and leaves them wide open for all sorts of attacks. It is also very Hansen and Rumlow gets in the passenger seat with a grumble, tucking James under his chin.

Hansen lifts his shades.

“And who let you knock them up?”

“Can it” He says sharply as Hansen shifts gears. “He’s not mine.”

“Winter?” The older man asks and Rumlow nods even though it’s all wrong. Let him assume. It’ll save the man’s life in the long run. But Hansen’s known him too long to simply let go. He was one of Hydra’s staunchest supporters before junior got killed. Hansen’s changed a lot since his son’s death.

“Why this car?” He asks as he glares into the sunlight.

Hansen shrugs. “You should have been more specific. Maybe they’ll think I’m your sugar daddy.”

“I’m too old to have a sugar daddy.”

“Friends with benefits?” Hansen offers and James shivers under his jacket. Rumlow sympathizes. DC traffic is murder.

“I think we’re beyond that at this point.”

“Me too.” They take off in a complete nonsensical direction, away from the Triskelion but rounding west so they’re never completely out of view. He wonders if Pierce is staring down from atop the high building, watching people scurry past like ants in their nests. “So tell me, what’s got the legendary Crossbones running scared? Trouble at home?”

“Something like that.” And Rumlow shoots him a vicious little grin. “And if you don’t get us out of here, I’ll show you firsthand what that trouble looks like.”

Hansen looks bored at the threat. “Is it the kid?”

“What’s it to you?”

“I’m putting my ass on the line for you. I need more than Winter collecting favors—the man’s never asked for anything in his life.”

“Exactly” Rumlow says. “Which is why I need this.”

“I joined Hydra” Hansen starts, leaving the Triskelion in the rearview mirror. “Not because I wanted to kill people but because I wanted to make the world a better place. Where my son didn’t have to be a soldier just because his daddy was.” He laughs. “That worked out great.”

James is trembling again, tiny fingers gripping his shirt tight. He has no idea if the pain is real or imagined. But he can’t stop it and Hansen’s southern twang is unearthing something deeper than a memory. Maybe it’s what bible thumpers call a part of his soul.

“Hansen” He interrupts cuttingly. Striker glares.

“I’m not telling you this because I want to Rumlow. You run, you’re going to have to make a choice. You’re going to live out your life hiding because no matter where you are, you won’t be able to stop looking over your shoulder for that one person who will betray you to the other side. This kid of yours, Winter’s, is he worth it?”

“More than” Rumlow says and he means it.

“Good” Hansen nods. “Otherwise I might have had to cap you myself and this little man would have been upset?”

“Was this a test?” He demands irritably.

“Glove box” Hansen nods.

It’s got a gun in it, fully loaded. There’s also a wallet with Hansen’s ID and license inside. Hansen goes through it one-handed and pulls out several Benjamins and a credit card.

“They’ll be looking for you. But they won’t think to track me first.” His lips twist into a frown. “Try not to use it too much.”

Rumlow takes it gratefully.

“The other contact?”

They stop in the middle of traffic when the light turns red.

“Coop couldn’t make it. He’s sending an errand boy.”

“Where are we meeting him?”

“Right here.” Hansen smiles pleasantly.

The light turns green and the cars honk their horns, yelling at them to move. When they don’t, the parade of Toyotas, Hyundais, Mazdas and Chevrolets swerve around them in a crawl to yell at them some more. “He says he’ll be here, so he’ll be here.”

“Terrific”

They escape Hydra just to be caught by run-of-the-mill highway patrol.

“You know” Hansen says casually. This is never a good sign. “People are uncomfortable with public displays of affection.” He winks at James who peeks through the collar. Rumlow zips up the jacket with a sigh, turning to the older man with a “Whatever you’re thinking, I don’t want any part of... mmph!”

James squeaks as Hansen lays a wet one on him. He flips a bird at a car when someone yells “fags!” out the window.

After a short scuffle, they part. Rumlow pulls James off to the side because insanity is definitely a catching thing.

A motorcycle pulls up beside Hansen with an uncomfortable cough. He takes off his helmet and Rumlow blurts out “Cooper?”

It’s Cooper but at the same time it’s not. He’s shaved his hair for one thing with patches of snow white coming through the scars. Although never quite vain, Cooper would have never allowed his scruff to get that long, not while in the throes of civilization. The man in front of him is not Cooper. He would be Cooper if someone took his ex-teammate and bludgeoned him of all charm and social necessities.

“This is Cyril” Hansen introduces. “Coop’s twin. He’s a Spider.”

At this, James perks up. Untangling himself from under his jacket, the boy pokes his head out and chirps “Привет! Меня зовут Коля. Любишь пауков? Мне нравится пауков. Мне нравится рыбалка пауков. Как насчет вас?”*

It’s the most he’s said in the past twenty-four hours. It also spooks mirror Cooper enough to take out a gun and point it at the kid’s head. “ _Holy_ —“ James is perfectly calm with a barrel between his eyes but Rumlow throws himself over the dumb boy, intent on shielding him with his body.

Hansen quickly pulls the gun down with a chop to the man’s wrist.

“You don’t want to do that son.”

Mirror Cooper seems to come back to himself.

“What is he? He shouldn’t have...” Cyril cuts himself off. “Пауки-волки”** he says rapidly to James. “Кто ты? Как вы знаете об этом?”***

But James seems to have tired his supply of words. He snuggles against Rumlow’s chest, eyes drooping.

“The package?” He asks threateningly, taking his eyes off the boy.

Cyril hands it over with a disgusted look.

“Vilík sends his regards. He says he will look into Camp Leigh.”

The light turns green again. With the roar of the engines, Cyril peels off the asphalt, leaving them quickly behind. They withdraw money from seven different places before they empty out his accounts. Rumlow thinks of leaving his landlord a message to tell him not to expect him back anytime soon but doesn’t. He doesn’t want to leave a trail and he can’t be sure his landlord isn’t on Hydra’s payroll.

“This is where you get off.” Hansen says, leaving them at a crowded parking lot in front of Walmart. “I’ll try to keep them off your trail but no promises.”

“Striker”

The older man smiles with a shake of his head.

“We both knew this would happen the moment we got in contact. Good luck and take care of him.”

“Who was that?” James asks as Striker drives off.

“A friend.”

“Will we see him again?”

“I don’t know.”

+++

Walmart is a fugitive’s paradise. Good selection, great prices and employees underpaid just enough to look the other way. Rumlow tries to keep it light, pretends that he and James are going on a camping trip. He grabs whatever he thinks they might need. Flashlight, extra batteries, phones, clothing, lighter, boots, swiss army knife, duct tape, a first aid kit, garbage bags, blankets, water and canned goods for the days they can’t stop. It’s hardly a diet for a growing child but he sweeps candy, soda and nuts off the shelf. On whim, he also gets the kid a Nintendo 3DS and the accompanying game packs. He charges it all on Hansen’s card and hopes that the older man lives long enough to send him the bill.

In the checkout line, he makes sure not to look too alert. He holds James even though the boy squirms, discomfited by the constant contact, because Hydra is looking for a man and a child assassin, not a boy with his doting father.

James taps his chin.

“It’s Steve.” He says suddenly, pointing at a magazine rack.

“Your kid must be a fan.” The cashier comments.

He thinks nothing of it. Plenty of people love Captain America and they were at the Smithsonian just a few days ago. But the kid doesn’t stop staring so he puts the US Weekly in the cart. They need to get out of DC fast but they sit outside the store, pouring over the pages of the most trivial bullshit he’s had the misfortune to read. James sits beside him, scarily intense. He’s still skittish like a rabbit keeping an eye out for hawks but he’s getting better. He is using words again.

Rumlow doesn’t know which part of it is actual recovery and which is conditioning. He likes to think that James trusts him on some intrinsic level but what does trust look like on a kid with holes in his brain? James is in awe of the colors red, white, and blue—a true patriot if there was one.

“That’s wrong.” He says matter of fact, wrinkling his nose at the blurbs. It tells Rumlow jack squat except that Captain America’s favorite activity is fighting crime. “Steve likes drawing. He doesn’t like fighting. He hates bullies.”

“And how do you know that?” Rumlow asks, activating his phone.

“He’s my best friend.” James answers with childish solemnity. “He lives a floor below me.”

Rumlow quickly does the calculations. History was never his strong suit but even he’s had the epic friendship of Captain America and Sergeant Barnes hammered into his brain. Back when he was stupid, he used to laugh about it with his buddies and scrawled _fags_ on his textbook. Steve Rogers thawed from seventy years of sleep on ice. What if James Barnes never died?

Level 8 clearance means that he knows where Cap lives. He also knows that there are other agents in place, other than the lovely Thirteen posing as a candy striper at a local hospital. Surely alarms have been raised by now. They’ll be checking his place out soon. The Captain’s apartment is on the other side of town.

“James, how would you like to visit Steve?”

The kid’s eyes light up but he is wary.

“Really?”

Hydra has many heads. With luck, they’ll be too busy chasing Hansen to look too far.

Rumlow feeds the boy first. He hasn’t noticed at first but it looks like the food is working. James is actually growing.

He’s finished a big mac and a side of large fries by the time they pull up to the Captain’s apartment in their stolen pickup. They ditch it little ways away under a tree just in case they need it again. As he opens the door to the passenger side, James holds out his arms asking to be hugged. Rumlow can’t quite mind the smear of ketchup on his chin as he carries him in.

Captain Rogers is not home at this hour, maybe he’s running. Maybe he is brandishing his own form of justice on the punching bags at the gym.

He fires off a text just in case.

Rumlow jimmies the lock and lets himself in. He disables the obvious security measures as James makes himself comfortable on the couch, swinging his legs back and forth as he plays super Mario with his head set. He seems to innately understand that he needs to be very, very quiet.

Good kid. He doesn’t deserve this.

The Cap left his iPod on the counter. Rumlow takes it around the room on a radio frequency, taking note when the pitch spikes to dig out the bugs.

Rogers comes around an hour later not to seem like he’s in a hurry. He isn’t sure if the word of his defection has gone out yet but the Cap brings cake and soda as peace offering so that’s encouraging. By this time, he’s found all the bugs in the bathroom, bathrooms are generally a bad place to bug, so they can talk there. He holds up a finger to his lips when Rogers comes bustling in.

The man seems taken aback at the sight of a boy sitting on his couch.

Rumlow waves him into the bathroom and gets straight down to business.

“What do you know?”

“Shield seems to think that you’ve defected. The latest is that you were working with the Algerian pirates to steal information.”

“Oh” Rumlow says. “Well that’s not too bad.”

“This is serious Agent Rumlow.”

“So is this.” He says, waving towards James who is curled up against the tub.

“I...” Rogers falters. “I didn’t know you were married.”

“I’m not.” Rumlow replies evenly. “Meet James, AKA the Winter Soldier.”

“Who?” Rogers echoes but he’s already staring at the kid when he lets out a small sob. For someone who wanted to see his best friend, James is not feeling it. He looks afraid. Despite being not even a fifth the size of Rogers, the kid looks like the man might break if he breathes wrong.

Not surprising. Most people didn’t survive an encounter with the Winter Soldier. He can count on one hand and the Black Widow doesn’t count. She was never the target after all.

“He says he knows you Cap.”

“Steve?” James asks shakily. “Are you Steve?”

Rogers looks indignant.

“If this is some sort of a joke.”

“Answer the question.” Rumlow says calmly.

“I am.”

“But you’re big.” James exclaims.

“I joined the army.”

Déjà vu. He clears his throat.

“Not to rain on the happy reunion” He says sarcastically “but we need to keep it down. The entire apartment’s bugged.”

James hops to his feet, leaving the 3DS on the floor as he shyly approaches Rogers.

“Bucky?” Rogers asks. “What’s going on? What happened to you?”

The boy ignores these questions.

“You’re not sick.” He observes.

“No” a pause. “Not for a while now.”

Rogers sits on the toilet.

“Bucky, how...”

“You’ve been lied to Captain. Your friend has been here the entire time.”

James looks sad at this answer but Rogers needs to know the truth.

The other man rubs the bridge of his nose.

“Fury knew about this.”

“He knew about the Winter Soldier. He didn’t know who he was.”

“And who is he?”

“The Winter Soldier” Rumlow drawls. “Most intelligence communities think he’s a ghost. He’s been attributed to more than two dozen assassinations over the past decades.”

“He fell.” Rogers swallows. “He _died_ over seventy years ago.”

“Believe me, you don’t want to know how they did it.”

James watches calmly as Rogers shakes, trying to get ahold of himself.

“He looks like he’s _seven_. How do I know he’s not some... clone or something?”

“After the Battle of New York, Shield acquired Loki’s staff. The staff was locked away in the vaults after intense testing.”

“Let me guess.” Rogers interrupts. “It’s not there anymore.”

The other man stands up, starting to pace. He looks like he wants to punch something and Rumlow draws James back just in case. The kid simply looks confused. It’s like he’s disassociated between the understanding there are people out to get him and people who care. Human contact was not in the Winter Soldier’s repertoire and a lot of it carried over.

“Loki” Rogers says, stretching his jaws. “He used his staff to brainwash people.”

“Standard procedures weren’t working.”

Rumlow has a feeling he would be very intimate with the wall right now if it weren’t for James. As though sensing the tension, the boy holds his arm out to be held. It’s cute. It makes a mean distraction. Rogers is a step too late and Rumlow sweeps the kid off his feet. He knows James is only doing it to serve as a human shield—in case Rogers does something he’ll regret. But he’s getting used to the solid weight in his arms, not too heavy, not too light anymore either.

It’s nice.

“The Winter Soldier made a wish.” Rumlow tells Rogers. “He wanted to remember you.”

+++

Rumlow gives Rogers a bullet point basic outline of what is happening. Shield is corrupt. The danger comes from within. Rogers missed a head when he took out the Red Skull. There are too many agents scattered all across the globe for him to consider fighting alone.

After that, after he’s drawn lines across all the major players in Hydra, James tugs on his pant leg and says, “We can go.”

“Are you sure?”

He looks up at Steve once and replies “yeah”

“No Buck, what are you talking about? You can’t go.”

“They’ll be looking for us.” James says, a touch of coolness in his voice. “You’ll be safe without us.”

“Then I’m going with you.”

“What Steve, no.”

“We’ve always had each other’s backs.” Rogers says determinedly. “Till the end of the line, remember?”

“I can’t do that anymore.” James says. “I’m too little.”

“So was I.”

He puts a hand on James’ narrow shoulders and the boy flinches.

Horrified, James cries out “I’m sorry, I won’t do it again.” He hides his face against the side of his neck and Rumlow turns around, making soothing noises.

Rogers senses that something is amiss.

In a quiet, terrifying voice he demands “What happened to him?”

“Is this a private party or can anyone join in?”

Fury leans against the doorway looking worse for wear. Hydra’s put a hit on him. Hansen is probably dead.

“Shit”

Rogers frowns at him disapprovingly. Like James hadn’t heard worse when he was the Winter Soldier.

“That about covers it.” Fury agrees. “Wife kicked me out.” He casually holds up a phone. The phone says— _place bugged_. No shit. “Need a place to crash for the night.”

“Of course. Does your wife know you’re here?”

“Probably”

That’s a yes. They need to move yesterday.

If Fury is surprised to see him, he’s not so much when Rumlow writes _sniper_ in the mirror.

James stiffens before relaxing. “No, not you.”

“Who’s the kid?” Fury asks.

“Found him.” Rogers says finally. “He looked hungry so I thought I’d feed him before sending him home.”

Fury shoots him a wry glance.

“I don’t know about where you come from but in this town, we call that kidnapping.”

“Guilty as charged.” Steve says.

Rumlow writes _Winter Soldier_.

Fury breathes out. He types _how long?_

He shakes his head. They are already out of time.

Rogers chose his apartment well. It’s surrounded by buildings on all sides making it all but impossible for a sniper to shoot from the opposite rooftop. No one but the Winter Soldier has the skills necessary to shoot through the walls but that doesn’t mean they won’t try. And when the snipers are done, that’s when the STRIKE team moves in.

There is no video feed to the Cap’s apartment as far as he knows. He and Rogers lay Fury down on the hardwood and tape his wounds. It’s bad. There isn’t a part of him that isn’t broken or otherwise about to be. James stares clinically, directing the effort. Between him, Rogers and Fury is mostly experience in field medicine. But the Winter Soldier has made killing into an art.

“Any more surprises I should be aware of?”

“Yeah” Rumlow laughs as James leans against him, tired after a long day. “The blond the Black Widow’s trying to set you up with? She’s Shield.”

“Well there goes my plans for tomorrow night.” Rogers says depreciatingly.

He might even come to like the other man a bit if he wasn’t a righteous prick.

James digs his fingers into his hip.

They are not alone.

“Step away from the director please Captain Rogers, Agent Rumlow.”

Agent Thirteen has a gun trained on them both. He doesn’t know what she heard but it’s probably nothing flattering. Nothing flattering for him at least. Rogers on the other hand. He can be salvaged. If he holds her off long enough, he’ll take James to safety and Fury too. His hand is sliding to his holster when she barks “Don’t even try.”

“Agent Thirteen.” He greets, climbing to his feet. Rogers mimics his movements. “This isn’t what it looks like.”

“Enlighten me.” She grits out. “Because it looks like Captain America is helping a known traitor to cover up a murder.”

“There is a perfectly good explanation...”

She cocks the gun and taps her ear. “Sir, I have them in my sights. Captain...”

The woman drops backwards, a red starburst spreading from her stomach.

James has a gun in his hand, taken while Rumlow wasn’t paying attention. He stares at her fallen form, eyes glazed over with an oily sheen.

“ _Hail Hydra_.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *(=Hi! My name is Kolya. Do you like spiders? I like spiders. I like fishing spiders. How about you?) In the comics there was a series of male spiders produced by the Red Room. Looking at the end credits for the movie on IMDB, I found someone playing a Russian Spider? Maybe the dude on the bridge who dropped down with a rope? Anyway, just throwing that in there.  
> **(=Wolf spiders) The Black Widows male counterparts were wolf spiders I believe.  
> ***Who are you? How do you know about this?


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I lied. There's another part left.
> 
> *crosses fingers*
> 
> I just needed some fluff before I do what I was planning to do.
> 
> Thank you so much for all your loving support :D

What does the Winter Soldier remember?

That’s the question isn’t it?

The Winter Soldier remembers the silence and the cold, a boy named James and a man out of time. While any of this exists, the Winter Soldier cannot. Yet he has manifested himself in a child’s body, face blank and uncomplicated like a porcelain mask.

He is far cry from the timid little boy he carried in his arms. When he moves, he does so flawlessly with purpose, discount sneakers making little noise as they step over the hardwood floor. What he is doing is not so much walking as it is pushing the air molecules out of the way.

Rumlow tries not to startle when Agent Thirteen’s gun slides to his fingertips.

“Hydra is dead.” Sharon Carter spits as the boy stands before her, shoulders square and arms outstretched to compensate for his lost stature.

Rogers is beginning to stir beside him as though shocked to see the blond alive. To be honest, Rumlow is as well. Maybe the Winter Soldierhad a thing for deadly women. Romanoff is a proof enough. But the Cap only has eyes for the boy with limp, brown hair. He looks like he’s seen baby Jesus jump out of his grave after a three-day bender. He doesn’t seem to register the words that fall out of his plump mouth or the hole in Carter’s gut, blood seeping through the pink scrubs.

Rumlow remembers because everyone else forgets. The Winter Soldier is a ghost. All ghosts have legends behind them.

“Hydra” The Winter Soldier corrects, his voice devoid of all inflections. “Is a mythical monster which grows two heads for each that is cut off.”

“A myth is still a myth.” Carter taunts and Rumlow would applaud her if her attempt wasn’t so foolish.

The Winter Soldier nods. He swiftly unchambers his shot and drops it in her lap. “For your honesty.” He announces.

Carter gasps in shock.

The Winter Soldier is a man in a child’s body, a weapon to be sanitized after every use, compassion, pity, and warmth strained from his blood. No orders had been given, no handler on site, Rumlow is hardly qualified—he has no idea what can be worse than Rogers unsticking his feet from the floor to stride forward.

The boy raises his gun defensively but Rogers does not stop. Rogers had a death wish—or so the saying went around the water cooler. Rumlow stopped reacting somewhere between the fifth and the twelfth time the Captain did something recklessly heroic with nary a scratch to show for it. But this is different. This time, it’s the Winter Soldier who has his finger on the trigger. He does not want him to do anything he might regret.

“Bucky” Rogers calls. “Buck, it’s me.”

“Who is Bucky?” The Winter Soldier asks mildly but his tone is one of apprehension. He stares at the new faces with wariness written in his eyes. “I do not understand.” He mutters quietly to himself. His fingers skim over his face, trying to snatch at the memories loosened by gunfire.

“It’s okay.” The man swallows. “It’s okay Bucky. We’re going to figure this out.”

“Who are you?”

Rogers might feel like his world has ended but this is good. This is familiar ground. Rumlow has seen this before. He and the STRIKE team have all seen this before. No doubt if Hydra gets ahold of him again, this will remain the one constant. The disorientation, loss of identity and self. The only difference will be the faces and the bodies that will break him from the cold. He snaps to attention.

“Sir” He says “Agent Rumlow of STRIKE team. I have been assigned to you for the mission.”

It’s the right combination of words. The Winter Soldier’s eyes light up in response.

“Yes” he answers molasses-slow, like a trawler hauling baskets of fish aboard.

They have played this game many times.

“Status?”

“Control has been compromised.”

He holds his breath. Only Hydra commanders can hold the Winter Soldier’s leash. Rumlow is just a foot soldier but he is also the closest thing they have on hand.

“The others?”

“In hiding.”

Something wavers in the Winter Soldier’s expression, a crack in the programming, memories of James beginning to resurface.

“Bucky” Rogers says again because he cannot shut up.

“I’m going to take a wild guess here and say, that is not an ordinary kid.” Fury groans.

Rumlow doesn’t even try to keep the hint of pride out of his voice.

“He’s the only reason you’re still alive.”

“What happened to him?” Rogers asks, his throat bobbing and eyes suspiciously wet.

“Life.” Rumlow answers and continues “sir, we have to get you to safety. You require... maintenance.”

The Winter Soldier frowns.

“I do not feel pain.”

“You’re standing at half your height and barely fifth your original weight.” Rumlow reminds him.

That is when the Winter Soldier thinks to look down on himself. The Winter Soldier is driven by a series of commands and instinct. He is not particularly self-aware. He carries out assassinations and one-man sieges but he is shit when it comes to taking care of himself.

That’s why he had the STRIKE team.

“You bought me shoes.” The Winter Soldier acknowledges and it’s as though a switch has been flipped. He relaxes and mindful of the growing puddle of blood, takes a step sideways.

“Bucky?” Rogers repeats.

“Steve” James blinks. “Steve, what are you doing here?”

“You came to visit dummy.”

The boy looks astonished.

“Why?”

“Because” Rogers hesitates. “Because you’re my friend.”

“Oh” James sets the gun down and kicks it to him. Rumlow sheaths both in his holster and breathes a little easier. He’s been in Congo and Nigeria. Kids totting guns shouldn’t be a surprise to him but it feels wrong to see the cold metal between the rosy palms. “I know you.”

Rogers cracks a smile.

“Yeah, you do.”

“Captain” Rumlow warns. Rogers scowls defensively.

Sighing, he gestures towards Carter and Fury, both on the ground, clearly in bad shape.

“We have to go.”

James nods and ducks past Rogers who raises an arm to intercept.

“Go?” Rogers asks. “Go where?”

He grabs James’ hand.

“Anywhere they won’t think to look for us.”

“They” Fury says, sitting down on the couch. “Meaning Hydra.”

“Hydra has infiltrated every level of your precious Shield, Director. Are you really surprised?”

Rogers opens his mouth several times as though to say something. Apparently reaching some sort of conclusion, he gets towels from the bathroom and gives them to Carter to bleed on. He takes out his phone and types messily ‘VAs _office. FindbSam Wilson tell him I sent you_ ’.

He gives the other man a look.

“Brock” James mumbles, knocking his head against his hip. “’m hungry.”

“Take the cake.” Rogers says immediately. With a rustle of plastic bags, he hands them over. “Sorry Buck, didn’t know you were coming. I only have vanilla. And sprite. And cereal? I think I have cereal.”

James stares curiously.

The other man smiles with a wince.

“I’ll see you soon okay?”

“Why?”

“Because you’re my friend Buck. I’ve missed you very much.”

 

Sam Wilson lived in a suburban neighborhood near the city proper, complete with a yard and white picket-fence. He hadn’t been at the VA’s office by the time they arrived but it was easy enough to find the address while James ran distraction. The kid had whip cream all over his face and people were tripping all over the place to find Kleenex or a wet cloth.

They park a little ways away and fill a small backpack with necessities in case they need to run. Sam Wilson is a former military paratrooper who served in Afghanistan. Honorably discharged. Squeaky clean. These days, clean makes him nervous. Gritting his teeth, he knocks on the door.

The man who opens the door looked like he’d just come out of the showers. He is young, body yet to soften into practical civilian broadness. Seeing James cling to his shoulders, the man raises one dark eyebrow and asks “Can I... help you?”

“Steve Rogers seemed to think so.” Rumlow answers grimly. “Let us in.”

James wiggles in his arms as the door closes behind them. Rumlow readjusts his grip.

“Close the blinds.” He orders.

Wilson humors him.

Rumlow relaxes.

He lets James down who hops on one foot before hiding behind his legs.

“Hey” Wilson says, crouching down to the kid’s eye level. “What’s your name?” Rumlow’s noticed that James has that effect on everyone. Everyone except _them_ , his mind points out cruelly. He shakes his hand free when soft fingers wrap around them. James pouts at him and replies,

“’m James.”

“Well James, my name is Sam. I don’t got a clue what’s going on here but whatever it is, I’ll help you and your dad figure it out okay?”

“He’s not my kid.” Rumlow interrupts as James smothers an “okay” into his leg.

He glares at the younger man, daring him to argue.

Wilson simply shrugs.

“So, can you tell me what’s going on?”

“No” Rumlow says and elaborates. “We needed a place to stay. Rogers offered.”

Wilson swears under his breath. Not all of it is flattering.

“Oh he said a bad word.” James tugs on his pants. He twitches. “Brock, he said a bad word.”

And the Winter Soldier has heard worse from both Cooper and Rollins, the latter when he was having a particularly nice dream. They used to steal his boots so they could feed it to him on those restless nights. The Winter Soldier had never particularly minded. He thought the noises were interesting.

“Oh no” Wilson says dramatically, playing his part. Wide-eyed, he exclaims “James. You can’t tell Steve okay? If he knows I said that word, he’ll do bad, bad things to me.” Rumlow gives him points for not actively trying to touch the boy. “Can I count on you soldier?”

James thinks for a moment then nods. For Rumlow, the endearment strikes too close to the truth.

“Whew” Wilson says in relief. He stands up and stares Rumlow in the eye. “Now, let’s see about getting the two of you settled.”

 

James had to be given a bath.

“He’s like five.” Wilson argues.“ You can’t leave him alone in there.”

“He’s seven.” Rumlow corrects but he’s not sure. The boy is scrawny for his age, any age, and the food that goes in seems to only extend to height. Wilson blanched after one look at the canned stuff he bought and insisted on making dinner.

James licks his plate clean and shyly declares that it is the best thing he has ever eaten. Even he admits that the food is good but it hardly makes it to top ten on his list. James is biased because the Winter Soldier lives on leprechauns and unicorn tears. He’s not surprised when the boy asks for seconds and thirds, discreetly stuffing garlic bread down his shirt because Rumlow had specifically bought pocketless shorts from Walmart.

Wilson glares as though he has been purposefully starving him. Rumlow glares back.

James is disappointed when Rumlow chucks the pilfered garlic bread into the wastebasket and wipes him down with his shirt. His chest is greasy with butter, the bruises all but disappeared.

He assumes that James retained most of the Winter Soldier’s superhuman healing abilities. But when he unwinds the bandages around his feet, too tight and starting to cut off circulation, he discovers to his astonishment that the cut has healed, no stitches required. He rubs the soft arch of the boy’s foot, eliciting a giggle, seeking a patch of new-pink skin that is not there.

It is as though James never had a cut in the first place. As he scrubs him down in the soapy water, he asks about the scars on his knees and elbows and the knot behind his ear. The kid says he doesn’t remember and Rumlow trusts him, he believes him, but it doesn’t sit right with him and that more than anything scares him. Because this is a whole new person he has on his hands. With time, James could be a normal boy. One that goes to school and plays baseball in the sun.

Rumlow bites his tongue. It’s foolish to think that they can make it that far. At best, it’ll be like what Hansen said. They’ll live out their lives looking constantly over their shoulders. If they’re lucky, they’re will be nights they won’t wonder if the room is about to get flooded with noxious gases or become a target of a missile strike because god help him, he won’t leave James to make it on his own.

“It’s bad isn’t it?” James asks and Rumlow replies truthfully,

“I don’t know.”

 

The kid’s hair is long. It would be much easier to cut it but he painstakingly goes over it with a comb and a blow dryer, enjoying the silky tassels between his fingers.

“Here” Wilson says, when he is done. He hands him a couple of hair bands. “My niece left them last time she came for a visit. Think your kid could use them.”

As though in agreement, James blows his hair from his eyes.

“Not my kid.” Rumlow grumbles and snatches them out of the other man’s hand. He chooses the least obnoxious, gaudy one of the lot, a plain red band lacking in essential flowers, beads or glitter. But he stops for a moment and holds them out to James. “You want one?”

The kid screws up his face like it’s a test. He worries at his lip before deciding,

“The... green one?”

Rumlow shrugs. If anything, he supposes that the butterfly helps.

The end result is that James looks adorable when he’s finished. He discreetly takes a picture with a burner phone and destroys its sim card.

Wilson has a bed ready for them. Words of thanks have long fled his vocabulary but Rumlow tries anyways. He tells himself it’s for the kid’s sake.

“Oh no” Wilson shakes his head. “Anything for Captain America.”

James’ eyes light up in response. He chats a bit about Steve Rogers and Wilson obliges him good-naturedly. Rumlow appreciates the fact that the other man doesn’t shoot him down immediately for saying they were childhood friends.

In bed, James is not quite as cheery and he tosses and turns even as Rumlow fixes his gaze at the ceiling. He plays the events of the day backwards and forwards in his mind, finding holes, discrepancies in the programming.

What does the Winter Soldier remember?—he asks himself because nobody had a mind to before this point. Pierce thought he knew and was burned for it. The doctors know squat and Steve Rogers probably thinks he got his best friend back. But Rumlow knows. He can make an educated guess. The person in bed is neither the boy nor the man but somewhere in between. It is the germ of a personality which takes root when the soldier is kept awake. The potential of Bucky Barnes, a beloved icon, a respected comrade, a loyal friend.

The Winter Soldier remembers.

“Then why didn’t you fight back?”

James stills between the sheets.

When he reanimates, Rumlow notes with a modicum of bitterness that it is away from him, closer to the wall where he can keep an eye on everyone and everything that happens in the room. Rumlow is fairly certain Wilson is standing watch outside. He can see the telltale flickers of television screen even if the sound is muted. He barely hears James reply “I... I’m not allowed.”

This is conditioning. In order to make the doctor’s lives easier, they beat the aggression out of him. He is inured to touching, taught that pain is bad but Hydra’s brand of agony was good bullshit every newbie is exposed to. Pain is pain but the Winter Soldier learned differently. Even then, there is a strict hierarchy among the people who could touch.

“Who said?”

James pretends to be asleep for five whole minutes. He slows his breathing but his heart is running jackrabbit fast. Rumlow waits him out.

“They said it was you.” James says timidly.

His heart squeezes. Rumlow forces himself no to react. He’s treading on a fine line. The kid is like a psychiatrist’s wet dream. He’s seen comparisons between children and rubber bands but he doesn’t want to push—he can’t not push.

At the risk of making the kid mute again, he reaches out to James. He doesn’t get far. Rumlow’s on the floor and the kid is in bed. His hand waves uselessly before patting the mattress. He doesn’t bother getting up. He knows that this time, Rollins won’t be here to stop him from blowing up. Wilson can try but it’s likely he will knock the other man’s block off as well.

“They said you gave them permission.”

He closes his eyes.

“Where did they hurt you?”

There’s a fast rubbing sound Rumlow imagines to be James shaking his head.

“I don’t... I... it didn’t hurt. Honest.”

Rumlow hopes Rollins skins them all alive.

“I... they told me to open my mouth and...”

Breathing through his teeth, he asks “Why on earth did you _let_ them?”

He’s made a mistake. On the far wall, he can see James’ shadow quake like a tub of jello. He waits for the shaking to die down. James is not a child; he’s really not. And Rumlow knows that there are worse fates in the world than outliving everyone you ever cared about. He sits up and leans against the bed. Tears glitter in the boy’s eyes and he quickly burrows into the pillow and sheets. “I didn’t...” he chokes. “I don’t, I don’t...”

Through the darkness, Rumlow hears—

“ _I thought I deserved it_.”

There is a loud ping in his left ear. For a moment, he thinks that he has been shot. Hydra has found them, Wilson will be dead outside and he’s been shot. He can’t explain the pain in his chest, his throat burning as he gulps for air. His limbs are rigid, popping in their joints when he forces them to move, _just move_ , because the sheer agony of those five words is worse than anything he’s ever known. He didn’t shed a tear when he learned that junior was dead. Nor when he had to give his belongings back to his old man after. His breathing comes in short gasps before he launches himself forward, wrapping his arms around the little lump to let the kid know he’s there.

“Not your fault.” He gasps. He presses his nose against the bowed spine. “Never, ever, don’t you ever think...” For the past fifteen years, pain has been his world. Pain equals discipline or so the book of Hydra said. He scrabbles for a purchase, for anything that will make the feeling go away. It’s like he has an ax buried in his chest after swallowing a few grenades. He wants to kill, he wants it to hurt, he wants to give the pain away. “No kid, no. You don’t deserve that. Never.”

James shudders, squeezed tight into a ball.

“I killed people.”

“So have I.” He says harshly. “So has Hansen, Rollins, Wilson even Rogers. None of our hands are clean. The people you killed, they were corrupt. They deserved it. If it wasn’t them, it would have been someone else. If it wasn’t you, it would have been someone else.

He climbs onto bed, one hand pivoting on the boy’s skinny shoulder like an axel in a hub. Despite his better judgment, Rumlow curls around him, protecting him. In a hoarse voice he adds, “Captain America believes you. Isn’t that what you want?”

“It’s Steve.” James insists, words muffled against his chest. He says it as though it explains something. Maybe it did to some extent. “Hurting people is bad.”

Rumlow sighs. “You and I, we live in an imperfect world. Sometimes we have to break things in order to make something new. It doesn’t make you bad. It’s just the way things are.”

Knees barely miss his groin and tuck themselves against his stomach.

“Then how can you tell good people from bad? What makes me different? Why aren’t I bad?”

That, Rumlow has no answer to.

But he smiles at the child’s simplicity, wondering if this was the actual boy or the mind wipes in effect. The Smithsonian exhibition mentioned that Barnes and Rogers grew up clinging to the poverty line by the skin of their teeth. He runs his fingers through the silky hair and says, “I don’t know yet. I’ll tell you when I find out.”

 

James falls asleep snoring wetly into his shirt but Rumlow can’t. The room is big and airy, the bed too soft. For a man used to sleeping in far and exotic places bathing in dirt for comfort, this is torture. He can feel the hours crawling by and wonders why Rogers hasn’t come for them yet. He wonders if he should have drove on instead past the stateliness—they could have been past Virginia by now.

Carefully extricating himself from the boy’s thin embrace, he steps out of the room and sees Wilson still up watching late night TV. There is a pot of steaming coffee in front of him and Rumlow steals a cup, splashing the scalding liquid onto his tongue.

This is the good pain, the kind that wakes him up. It has nothing to do with the raw ache in his lungs nor the tiny cuts at the base of his thumb where his fingers have worn grooves into his skin.

“You alright man?” Wilson asks and he nods curtly in response.

“I’m going out.” He explains, staring the younger man hard in the eyes. “Make sure nothing happens to him.”

Rumlow stashes his supplies in the yard before driving off, as far away as he is comfortable walking before dumping it in a ditch. He pours gasoline over the seats and torches it. And as the truck burns, he makes a call.

He tries six times before he gets the numbers right. It’s a code he and his teammates made up back in the late nineties after spending seventy-two hours incognito in the field. It’s to make sure that they can contact each other no matter what. But Rumlow has already stumbled over one DC sex hotline, he’s not in the mood for idle chitchat. When the ringtone dubs over to a smooth, “ _Eureka Video Rental Service and VCR_ , how may I help you?” he growls “It’s me.”

“Let me guess.” Cooper says with heavy irony. “You’re still in DC.”

 

Rumlow makes it back to Wilson’s place at dawn. He’s wet, drenched with sweat and morning breeze. As soon as he opens the door, he is greeted by a whirlwind of fists and feet, James demanding to know where he’s been.

Wilson stares apologetically from off to the side, looking frazzled as Rumlow tries to calm the boy down. He narrowly misses getting kicked in the crotch when he grabs the boy by his hands and feet. Good to know not everything was artificially engineered. Finally, Rumlow tires and pins the boy in a bear hug, dropping them both into the sofa where the air is knocked out of James’ lungs with a quiet ‘oof’.

“You promised.”

A fist strikes him on the collar bone. “You promised, you promised, you _promised_.”

Thump, thump, thump. Wilson excuses himself to go check on the laundry or some other bullshit. Pussy.

“I came back.” Rumlow hisses. “I always come back.”

“But”

“No buts.” He assures him. He drops his voice and adds, “you know me boss, I’m...” he racks his brain for an age-appropriate example. “I’m like a cat. Haven’t used up all my nine lives yet.”

James weeps as he rocks him back and forth.

“Hansen didn’t.” Rumlow stiffens. “He’s never coming back is he?”

“No” he slumps. “No he’s not.”

James tires himself after a while. Rumlow is not sure if he’s asleep or catatonic, but he strokes the kid’s back kind of like how someone might pet a dog because he’s so out of depth it’s not funny. He barely remembers getting hugs as a child. The most human affection he ever received was in the army, then Hydra while the Winter Soldier was active as their instructor. He doesn’t think the girls he fucked counts, not when he was half-high and drunk out of his mind. He doesn’t remember the last time he had a steady lay. He’s like the Winter Soldier in that way. Spotty memories.

“A wise person once said when our loved ones die, they continue living in our hearts.” No one told him that, but he did see The Lion King on a flight to Mombasa. “I think Hansen would have liked knowing that you remember.”

 

“Cute kid”

Wilson comments when he tries to eat breakfast one-handed.

“Not mine.” Rumlow corrects.

The other man gives him a sympathetic look.

“Of course not.”

They sit in uncomfortable silence, broken up occasionally with breaking news about Ukraine, Libya and somebody’s grandmother being stuck in the toilet. There’s no bulletin about possible high-speed car chases within DC nor shoot outs in midday which would have included a high body count knowing Fury and his wily ways. Shield—Hydra—is doing a cover up. Which means he won’t know through the media outlet whether Rogers, Fury and Carter even made it to the hospital.

When the doorbell rings, it’s a race to see who can get to the door first. Rumlow loses gracefully because it makes James laugh. The kid clings to him like a baby koala, knocking his heels against his back as though asking him to do it again. Rumlow shoots him a stern look. Wilson opens the door.

Uncharacteristically, Romanoff is front and center, attractive even with the less-than-skin-tight clothing. Rogers lingers on the lower step, juggling a bag of groceries in his hand. He spies different brands of cookies and sweets, a random pear thrown in the mix. Rumlow presses his lips into a line and demands “Does everyone think I’m starving the kid?”

“Are you?” Rogers asks in concern.

“No!” He snaps because that’s exactly something he would do. Starve a kid after risking his neck to save him.

Rogers nods in satisfaction. “You’re not starving him.”

Rumlow rolls his eyes and greets the woman in front of him.

“Agent Romanoff”

“Agent Rumlow” Romanoff mimics, just as pleasant.

“Rogers” Wilson says, obviously unimpressed.

“Steve” James pipes up when the silence gets to be too much.

“You square Buck?”

“I’m square.”

Romanoff barely bats an eye at this exchange. She doesn’t ask about the little kid wrapped around his side or the fact Steve knows him.

“Now that we’ve been introduced.” She says. “I think we need to talk.”

 

“Your intel checks out.” Romanoff says briskly, pushing the stacks of magazine aside to set her feet on top. She hands him a file filled with glossy black-and-white images. Wilson takes a discreet look and is baffled. Rumlow studies it for a moment, James wrinkling his nose picture after picture, and hands it back with a noncommittal shrug.

“Fury is dead.” She says.

“Good riddance” He mutters and the glare she levels at him could flay a man alive. Wilson scoots away from him, fingers twitching like he wants to extricate James from the line of fire. It might be a good idea if the kid wasn’t stuck to him like a barnacle. Maybe he’s cute enough to qualify as a human shield. The Black Widow is probably immune to that sort of blatant manipulation.

“Agent Carter is in a coma, making your involvement a nonissue for the moment.”

“And who says I’m involved?”

“You saved Bucky’s life.” Rogers blurts out. All heads turn to him.

“I saved a child’s life.” Rumlow sneers. “That doesn’t mean I’m committed to whatever insane you’re about to hatch. Let me make this clear Captain, I’m not one of your groupies. I still believe in the cause. I still believe people need to be protected from themselves.”

“Like they did with Bucky?”

Rumlow flinches. James squeezes that much tighter.

“I’m just a dumb forties guy from Brooklyn. Plenty of things I don’t understand. But this is not freedom. This is fear. The punishment is supposed to come after the crime.”

“And when is that?” Rumlow asks in low voice. “When a kid dies? When two? If tomorrow DC burns, can you honestly say you wouldn’t have tried to stop it?”

He lays a hand on James’ scalp. The boy resolutely tries not to look. “That’s on you Rogers. You’re the one who never came back for him. You’re the one who fell asleep on the job with a pat on his back, trusting that people would actually learn to take care of themselves. Hydra rose up. How could it not?”

“ _Brock_ ” James whispers faintly, sounding scared.

“You’re a part of it Cap.” Rumlow stresses. “You’ve always been a part of it. You, me, Romanoff, Fury, Stark, Barton, James, everyone.”

Blue fire lights behind the man’s eyes.

“I’m taking it down. All of it. Everything goes.”

“Yes” Rumlow drawls. “Because that’s worked so well for us in the past hasn’t it?”

 

“Hydra is real.” Wilson says out loud.

“Hydra is real.” The Black Widow parrots, looking down at the game board.

“I mean, it still exists, they didn’t just go away in the war?”

“Does anything?” She asks quizzically, pushing her piece forward.

The two entertain the kid as he and Rogers stand outside to cool off. Wilson called time out on them after James got visibly upset. He’d begun to whimper when they were parted. But once Wilson brought out Monopoly, he’d been forgotten like high school algebra.

Rogers cranes his neck, trying to get a better glimpse of the boy through the window.

Rumlow lets out a breath. He needs a cig.

“Then who can we trust?” Rogers asks in frustration as he shoots down yet another candidate for their rag-tag team of distinctly unpowered, unarmed outcasts. “You’re Hydra, you must know.”

“Hill” Rumlow answers without hesitation. She’s always been Fury’s right hand. Coulson would work just as well but he’s got no safe way to contact him. Since Rumlow is a persona non grata within Hydra, he can’t exactly call Ward up for a quick chat.

“That’s it?”

“You’re asking for an agent within the organization with above level clearance and enough firepower to bring down a small country. Hydra’s already turned all the useful ones. The rest are cannon fodder.”

Rogers peers at him curiously. It’s the same look James has when he’s trying to figure something out. What does the Winter Soldier remember? How much of it is real? “And you? What do you get out of this?”

“He was your best friend, what do you think?”

“He trusts you.” Rogers points out.

“He knows me.” Rumlow emphasizes because it can’t be said enough. “I’m probably the only person he recognizes in this shithole. He doesn’t trust me. He cries whenever I so much as breathe on him.”

Rogers takes a breath and smiles, his lips growing crooked as his eyes crinkle. Rumlow scowls. He doesn’t need Captain America’s approval.

“I’m not sure Sam will appreciate calling his place a shithole.”

“He’s ex-special forces.” Rumlow counters. “Anyone could find him—he should be ashamed of himself.”

“Not all of us can afford to be so paranoid.”

“It’s not paranoia if it’s true.”

Rogers hums in agreement. The other man then grimaces and says “So Hydra.”

“It was never gone.” He replies. “A head is just a head. It doesn’t matter which one you cut off.”

“Apparently I cut off the wrong one.”

“You’ve seen the reports.” Rumlow says neutrally. “He would have died if it weren’t for Zola.”

Rogers looks down at his hands.

He breathes “you say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Rumlow waits. The other man’s eyes are glazed over like a pane of glass, as though they’re the only things that’s stopping the waterworks. Over the years, there have been hundreds of books, articles, games, comics, films written about Captain America. None of them predicted that he might be back, that his friend might come back, there all along in the shadows where he forged an entire generation. Stark Industries has nothing on the Winter Soldier.

“It’s only been two years for me. I thought he died. I mourned him. I had no idea.”

He clenches his fists and Rumlow turns away. He’s never developed taste from seeing grown men cry.

“Save your breath Cap, or at least record it. I’m not the one you should be talking to about this.”

Rogers laughs. “It’s selfish isn’t it?”

“It’s reassuring to know that Captain America is only as human as the rest of us.”

“We grew up poor. But even when I had nothing, I still had Bucky. Does that make sense?”

It does. He’s just not about to say it. He says kindly,

“Sergeant Barnes sounds like a nice guy.”

Rogers beams.

“Yeah, he really is.”

 

Rumlow scowls and pokes his head through the door.

“Don’t think I didn’t see you.” He accuses Romanoff as she pats her shirt down from showing off her scar. “He’s a kid!”

Wilson immediately looks offended before realizing Rumlow does not give a crap about him. 

“It’s never too early to start!” Romanoff hollers back.

 

“So that is the Winter Soldier.”

Rumlow bristles. “Got a problem with that? You want to get to him, you’re going to have to go through a lot of bodies first.”

The other agent scoffs. “I don’t kill children.”

“Does the air smell cleaner on that shiny pedestal of yours?” Rumlow asks in genuine curiosity.

Romanoff gives him a bland smile, the one that freaks probies out when they get over the fact that she’s hot and unavailable.

“You care for him.”

Rogers and Wilson call for lunch.

 

“Between all of us being fugitives in the law...”

“Hey” Wilson interjects.

Rogers smiles sheepishly.

“Technically they’re the fugitives.” Romanoff points out in the interests of fairness. “The public doesn’t know we’re involved.”

That explains the lack of news on TV.

When Rogers threw him a questioning look, Rumlow responds “PR. Much easier to say I coerced you two than to put out an actual hit on Captain America.”

“Oh”

“There’s no Amber Alert yet but I won’t put it past them.” He adds unnecessarily.

Rogers looks even more grim.

“We need to get back in. Can you help?”

The real question was—will you help? Rumlow wasn’t entirely sure how to answer.

His arm aches from carrying James around all day. The kid is an ever-present weight on his lap, grounding him. He knows that if he doesn’t do this, someday, on this continent or the next, Hydra will find them. The Winter Soldier won’t protect himself. He can’t protect James forever.

He looks at James who stares back.

“I’ll do what I can.”

“So what’s the plan?” Wilson asks.

“Sam, I can’t ask you to...”

“Then don’t ask...”

“Frankly,” Romanoff comments lightly. “We’re going to need all the bodies we can at this point.”

Wilson frowns.

“I resent that.”

Romanoff quirks a smile.

James kicks his legs back and forth.

“So when do we start?”

They all turn to stare at him.

Rogers sighs.

“We just did.”


	4. Chapter 4

There are ways to contact an operative without ever reaching for the phone. Easy ways, hard ways, messy ways with a body count.

In an out of view corner some place, on paper even the great Tony Stark cannot hack, Rumlow is on file as a Hydra loyalist and a capable field leader. He is not above getting his hands dirty but prioritizes the safety of his team. Minimizes risks, never takes on impossible missions that has men dropping like flies. The report concludes that he is a good soldier but lacks the initiative and _vision_ that makes a Hydra commander.

The Winter Soldier told him it didn’t matter when told. Better to have a soft heart that keeps beating than a hard one. He doubts James remembers their sporadic conversations when the wind was cold, sand chafed, and the sun beat like hell.

His brain rails at him to fall back, retreat. There is too much at stake, too much left to chance. The probability of mission failure is unacceptable even with Hill on board. He should have grabbed the kid and run when he had half a chance. Rogers would have let them with his blessings.

“Everyone hesitates.”

“Even you?” He’d asked, impossibly young.

“Especially me.”

He hadn’t known what he’d meant until years later seeing him in a chair.

The thing about favors is that it’s a universal currency. Shifting allegiance couldn’t change the fact that at one time or another, somebody owed someone something and that someone owed somebody back. It was a weakness everyone wanted off their ledger sooner than later and over the years, Rumlow has collected a lot of chips to cash in.

“Get Hill.” He tells Romanoff who is the only one in the room with an inkling of self-preservation. “She’ll know what to do. Tell her she might have to sweeten the pot a little if the boys won’t behave.”

Romanoff raises her eyebrows archly at exactly what she thinks of misbehaving boys. Meanwhile, Rogers is all affront but an op doesn’t pay itself. Someone has to foot the expense for efficient, highly-trained men with impulse issues but if what Cooper’s been telling him is true. Fury’s rolling in it. The coat’s got a lot of room for bling.

“Rollins will help you. He’s dumb like that.”

The Black Widow scowls at the name. He never did get the rundown on the bad blood between them. Ex-lovers maybe. But Romanoff has standards and not even Rollins is that stupid.

“You should get Jack a life vest.” James says cheekily, hands inching their way to the fruit bowl on the counter. Rumlow gets it for him without a thought, dropping a shiny apple in his soft palms. “One with ducks.”

He sees Romanoff’s lips twitch.

“He’d probably like it.” She says, playing along.

Rumlow scribbles down a number.

“This is for Cooper.” He tells them. “CIA. He’ll get you whatever you need.” He nods at Wilson. “Even your wings. Just never ask him how.”

James looks up from his apple with suspicion. Rumlow hadn’t noticed before but James is no longer the cute little kid he’s been carrying around on his hip. He’s still cute, the butterfly really brings out the color in his eyes, but he is inches taller than when he stood last. The addendum on the Battle of New York mentioned that the effects of brainwashing weren’t permanent. It looks like this won’t stick either.

They won’t need Dr. Hulk after all. When Rumlow asks offhand what it feels like to grow five inches in one day, James honestly replies that it’s exhausting and abandons his fruit to curl up at his feet. It’s hard to move with a kid wrapped around his ankle. He thinks it might be jealousy on Captain America’s face.

+++

“What’s the matter kid? You look like someone just died.”

By the time they finish sketching out a tentative plan (hah, it’s the only plan), the kid is upset. He’s wrapped up in his jacket, some cash and a pack of cigs hanging out halfway. It’d be cute if they were anywhere else, if they were anyone else.

The STRIKE team emblem makes his throat itch with guilt. James doesn’t know yet what it means to fight under a banner for the sake of a greater good. The kid is confused, keeps opening his mouth like clockwork to veto whatever covert stratagem they’ve been spouting but with no results. Romanoff cuts him with a look when Wilson lures the reluctant boy away from the safety of his ankle. Rumlow lifts his lips—she should keep better tabs on her would-be conquests then.

He abandons the effort for the moment because the rest is in the details. The less he knows, the better. He sits next to James and puts an arm around his skinny shoulders. They’re watching a cartoon. It’s disgustingly domestic.

“Don’t go.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You...” James licks his lips as some kind of a pink, mutant dog dances on screen. “I remember. I did the same thing. I used to.” He corrects himself.

“You were taller.” Rumlow hums and smirks at the boy. “Looks like some of those lessons actually stuck.”

James holds onto him beneath his oversized leather jacket, shaking like an autumn leaf. He isn’t supposed to make eye contact. All traces of defiance have been wiped from his personality. And at this moment, when the kid is asking for something he desperately wants, Rumlow uses this to his advantage. The boy’s gaze remains fixed on the TV screen.

“Don’t go.”

“Cooper will take care of you.” Rumlow assures him because unlike him, unlike Rollins or Rogers or Wilson, Cooper has kids. Real, breathing, demanding little shits who are oblivious to their father’s daytime job. Cooper will know what to do. He doesn’t. Not for a long time now.

“You promised.” James reminds him sullenly in a quiet voice.

“I promise to come back.” He offers.

The kid isn’t convinced.

“Nobody comes back!” He spits. “ _Nobody._ ”

Suddenly, as though realizing what he has just said, the kid launches himself backwards onto the couch arm. Rumlow has to reach out to make sure that he doesn’t fall off but it’s a close thing. The kid bites down on his lips, hard enough to draw blood. With his expression stricken white like November frost, the dabs of red is the only color on his face.

“I will” He says gently, pulling him into his lap. “You know I will.”

James just shakes and shakes and shakes.

“Why can’t I go with you?” He asks panting, blue eyes wide and earnest. “I’m bigger now. I can help. I’ll be good. I really can.”

What does the Winter Soldier remember?

Rumlow knows better now. Pierce was correct in saying nothing because there is no such man. The Winter Soldier had been a ghost among ghosts; something to scare the newbies with. A good man forged into something less, something deadly, something terrifying. The Winter Soldier had been his friend.

James is just a kid. It doesn’t matter what he remembers because he already knows he won’t put the boy at risk. He wonders if this is what it feels like to protect something more precious than an abstract idea. Rumlow doesn’t know how Striker ever got up in the mornings after junior’s death. He sets a hand on top of the boy’s head.

“You can” He echoes. “But you won’t have to.”

“I do.” James replies, his heartbeat jackrabbit quick. “Somebody has to watch your back.”

“You don’t.” Rumlow says firmly. “Because I’m giving you a choice. I read your bio once, just to pass the time. You were drafted, did you know that? You didn’t choose to go to war but you fought anyway. Everyone in this room is a weapon including you. But some of us weapons had a choice, you never did. I know you don’t believe in miracles but this time around, I’m giving you one.”

“This isn’t a choice.” James sniffles, tears wetting his long eyelashes. Rumlow ruffles his curling hair, knocking the butterfly askew.

“Sir, it’s been an honor.”

James startles, the tip of his toes scraping the floor rug when he says “ _Sputnik_ ”

+++

“Thank you” Rogers says, closing the door behind himself. “You didn’t have to. I... thank you.”

“I didn’t do it for _you_.”

+++

Rumlow needs to quit but he lights up in the nonsmoking area, wiggling his fingers at a woman with a spoilt brat in her stroller. It doesn’t take long for interested parties to take notice. Harder to ignore a man packing heat in the middle of a park, leering at whichever unfortunate joggers with shorts riding up to their crack. He’s sure Rogers would rather he stay away from populated areas but he has to sell this. He has to make sure everyone and their goddamned mother is looking his way.

Rollins looks grim as he pulls up. In the front is Russo, her frizzy hair tied in a messy bun.

“Will you come quietly?” She demands impatiently, all but tapping her foot as men spread out in a formation behind her shapely hips. People are starting to flee the area. They recognize something is wrong when men appear out of nowhere dressed all in black like how a wolf stands out between sheep.

Rumlow gets off his ass, grinding his cig under his heel. It’s a terrible habit he knows but he can’t quite seem to quit. “His favorite color is green.” He mentions off hand. “It looks good on him.”

He wonders if this is how Hansen felt before he died. The tiny bit of bravado and something done right. He mentally toasts those whose gone before him, Messer, baby Hansen, Hansen. He was lucky he knows. There are teams whose casualty rates would fucking hajjis balk. Entire units that don’t make it back. Some who come back in pieces inside a matchbox.

“Where is the Winter Soldier?” Miller asks politely.

“Really? That’s your question?”

Miller turns to Russo.

“I tried.”

“You tried real hard.” She disparages.

Something crackles in the air.

Rollins barrels forward, meaty fingers squeezed around two familiar batons.

His _eskrima sticks_ —Rumlow realizes. How the fuck did Rollins gets his hands on _his_ eskrima sticks? “Rollins you fuck—“ He snarls as he dodges the first swipe and parries the second with his knee. His legs go numb for exactly two seconds before he’s punching out the idiot who had the brilliant idea to take him from the back.

“Sorry Brock.” Rollins replies, not sounding sorry at all. “They want you in alive.”

Rumlow thuds on the ground, heart palpating from the three hundred thousand bolts surging past his brain stem. The ground is ridiculously comfortable as his finger twitches and he starts to crawl, one molecule at a time.

He can’t move.

+++

Of all the places he could have ended up, it’s in the chair, the goddamned chair when Hydra wanted something and somebody had the balls to say no. The chair doesn’t fit him. There is a depression behind the left elbow where the metal dug in. It wraps around him like it’s trying to swallow him whole, used to the Winter Soldier’s tapered waist and mismatched arms.

“Agent Rumlow” Pierce greets pleasantly. “This isn’t what I had in mind when I asked you to take care of the situation.”

“You should have been more specific.” Rumlow responds, blowing blood out of his nose. “Sir”.

“You’re right.” Pierce concedes with a casual shrug that makes him seem downright human. “Perhaps I should have left the asset in Agent Russo’s care instead.”

“Russo kills grass sir.” Rumlow informs him baldly. “I’ve seen her do it.”

The old man smiles.

“Where is the Winter Soldier?”

“With all due respect, I don’t have to tell _you_.”

His head rings from the force of the blow. Pierce has a mean bitch slap.

“I can make this quick or very painful. Your call, Agent Rumlow.”

When he says nothing, Pierce shakes his head.

“I thought you were better than this.”

“So did I.” He sneers before glaring at Rollins. “I can’t believe you went through my shit.”

Rollins quirks his lips.

“It was worth it.”

“Why?” Pierce asks but the question is not directed at him. It is at the pocket of air over his head, the ceiling, the whitewashed walls, but not at him, because Pierce thinks him less than the blood and piss between the tiles that won’t wash out. The man rocks back on his heels in contemplation, forced into a quandary by his obstinacy and silence. From his experience, Pierced loathed inconveniences.“The Winter Soldier is not a man you can owe allegiance to. He is a weapon—a machine. Whatever you think you know about him, I planted there. To train you.”

“But it never stuck did it?” He huffs. “That’s why you kept wiping him over and over because you were afraid he’d _remember_.”

He spits in the man’s face. Pierce doesn’t bat an eye.

“Dispose of him.” The old man says calmly. “I have other matters to attend to.”

Good riddance.

“Well kids?” Rumlow sneers.

They are diligent, he’ll give them that. He trained them after all. But they’re hardly creative. He’ll own up to that as well. Creative went out the window when Striker left. Creativity is an option.

“The last person to piss me off got their tongues cut out.” Rollins comments. “He bled out, no fuss.”

Rumlow gives him a bloodthirsty smile.

“And the second to last?”

Overhead, Roger’s tinny voice breaks in, laced with static. The man jaws about truth, justice and the American way before the speakers shut off. The entire room stops. Rollins moves.

The man puts a hole in a guy’s head before anyone thinks to react. But they’re too slow. Kirkland and Messer kill them all though the latter holsters his gun and tells them his debt has been repaid. Favors. Rollins lets him walk; the others will be too busy trying to do damage control to worry about three traitors.

“Do not.” Rumlow snarls. “Ever touch my stuff. Ever!”

“Sure Brock” Rollins replies serenely, handing over his eskrima sticks.

He stares balefully and shakes off his restraints.

“The fuck are you two waiting for?”

+++

Rumlow absolutely refuses to lean on Rollins but takes the jacket. It hides the wet spots better and makes him look less like a hemophiliac. He holds still when Kirkland slaps butterfly stitches on him and tells him that it’s the best he can do.

“We should have given you to the CIA instead.”

“Aw. You’re hurtin’ my feelings boss.”

The control room is a scene of a blood bath.

The startup program has already been initiated. The engines are humming, arc reactor technology flaring to life. From above, water pours in a sunshower that paints a rainbow across the flying warships before fading. Rollins swears and punches the console. Kirkland pushes him off and scrolls past the cracked screen to see if they can salvage the situation. They can’t. The new world order has begun.

But the helicarriers are big. Despite Hydra’s improvements and Stark’s giant ego, the ships are cumbersome and hard to maneuver. There is little room under the Triskelion and the helicarriers are forced to take off one by one.

“That one” Rumlow points to the one furthest in the back. “Can you take it out?”

“Should be fun.” Rollins replies, cracking his knuckles. “Where are you going?”

Through the corner of his eyes, he spies the star-spangled man with a plan getting onboard helicarrier B.

“My goddamned job.”

+++

After the fireworks, Rogers crawls out coughing from the glassy belly of the helicarrier half-carrying Wilson. They freeze when they see him and Rumlow raises his hands in a gesture of goodwill.

“You look like shit.” Wilson says with a shit-eating grin.

“You look like...” Rumlow retorts but words fail him. He really doesn’t have a good comeback for that. “So what’s the plan?”

“We need to cut the feeds.” Rogers answers with a trailing wheeze. He clears his throat before continuing. “Project Insight can’t triangulate targets if it can’t see them.”

“Terrific.” Simple plans are good. Simple plans have a less chance of going FUBAR. “How the hell do we do that?”

An explosion alerts them to the fact that Rollins and their motley crew has taken the initiative to fire all ordinances to the second arm of Project Insight. Wilson whistles in appreciation at the resulting conflagration. Men scurry like ants to put it out but the ship is a loss. He can see gun barrels melting like birthday candles in the fire.

Only one ship remaining.

Rogers looks up.

“Sam?”

+++

In what may be the single greatest design flaw since the Death Star, the central relay panel for the helicarriers extends down to the bottom where it is shielded by a glass dome. But the glass is reinforced. Nothing short of an anti-tank material will get through. So they have to start from the top.

After rolling to a stop on the runway, Rumlow ducks into a couch and starts shooting. The easy thing would have been to take a quintjet and blow a convenient hole in the helicarrier. But he doesn’t trust fickle Lady Luck enough to think that he has a snowball’s chance in hell of passing unscathed. He quite likes this life thank you very much. He’s promised James the impossible but he plans on getting through this alive.

“Watch your six!” He roars when he sees Wilson retract his wings.

“Got it!” The younger man yells back. “Where’s Steve!?”

They don’t see him. Somehow, they’ve lost six-foot something blond with a martyr complex in red, white, and blue _tights_.

If there is a god, Rumlow would like to strangle him before this is over.

“I’m going after him.”

“Woah! I’m coming with you.”

“You can’t.” Rumlow grins nastily when the wave of Hydra grunts ebbs just enough for him to stand up. “You’re the distraction.”

Wilson swears when he kicks him off the helicarrier but he takes the heat off in a spiraling loop. Stupidly, the quintjets charge after him one by one but Wilson is lighter. He just has to adjust his flaps and open his wings. The jets aren’t as quite as fortunate.

“Captain!” He bellows, barely missing the jet that goes skidding across the runway in a ball of fire.

“Over here!”

There is a convenient trail of bodies. Rogers didn’t spare the elbow grease.

“We’re taking the stairwell.”The other man says when he catches up to him. “Everything goes.”

“Thought you’d never ask.”

They make a great team. They’ve all been a good team what with both him and Cap and the STRIKE team playing their strengths for mission success. But this is different. This time, there are no hidden agendas, stolen information, or a primary-secondary objective. Captain America is an icon. Steve Rogers is a man hurting for justice and his best friend.

This time around, they both want the same thing.

Cap’s throwing arm gets plenty of workout as Rumlow wastes the redshirts one by one. But on Deck 5 on level R, they get pinned down by a mob of fanatics who fear Pierce’s wrath more than bullets to the head. It’s not wholly unreasonable. He grits his teeth and continues firing as Rogers picks up the slack and a semi-automatic.

There are too many of them. The new helicarriers are designed so that they never have to come down again. That means each harbor a healthy population numbering in the low thousand which only serves to protect the steel fortress.

In brief, they are fucked. They are surrounded beside a cleaning unit and a bunch of wires that seem significant but mean nothing to a jarhead and a centenarian. Where the hell is Stark when you need him? He would know what to do with Hill’s miracle chip.

“Any last words?” He drawls when his glock clicks empty.

Rogers scowls. Captain America can survive a bullet, maybe two. But even super serum couldn’t save him from becoming Swiss cheese. Rumlow recognizes the man shooting at them—leader of STRIKE team 9, Johnson Seich.

The man gloats as he wastes bullets on the wall. Idiot. He’s changing the cartridge when suddenly he drops like a puppet cut from a string. The next one has her throat torn out and she stumbles, grasping at the pulpy mess under her jaw. Another jumps backwards, his arm blown off and half his chest missing.

“Grenade!”

Sound dies as though all the oxygen has been pulled from air.

He and Rogers hit the ground, the shield raised over their heads. It’s hard to describe to someone who’s never heard it, the utter absence of noise when he walks. The Winter Soldier grinds a heel down on the hand of a man still reaching for the weapon at his fingertips. He casually steps on the man’s stomach until he bleeds out.

Rogers looks up in daze.

“You used to be smaller.”

An unreadable look passes between the two. The Winter Soldier concedes the point with a slight nod and lifts his foot from the corpse, a slight grimace flitting through his expression. A pit forms in his stomach, poisonous like a tumor, when he realizes that it’s not the Winter Soldier after all—it’s James.

The stupid fucking kid came after them.

At once, Rumlow backtracks. He can’t think of James as anything other than the Winter Soldier, not here, not now, not in this place where everyone with anything remotely resembling a projectile weapon has been told to shoot to kill. To do so means death for all three of them and many more involved. He has to focus on the part that is the stone-cold assassin that taught him everything he knows. Not the boy, not the kid he tried to save.

Tried and failed to save.

They might just make out of this alive.

“Bucky!” Rogers all but teleports to the kid’s side. “ _What the hell are you doing here?_ ”

Eagles have died and flags have combusted into flames. Rogers is swearing as he checks the Winter Soldier over for possibly injuries and the boy indulges him with a blank air, chin-length hair falling in waves over his face.

“I’m the contingency.” The Winter Soldier answers in his borrowed uniform, the smallest size, but it looks like it could wrap around him twice and still have room to spare. He glares up at them defiantly, the blue ring around his pupils still free of frost.

“How did you even...” Rogers clicks his teeth shut. “Fury.”

“Fury” Rumlow agrees. Of course the bastard is alive. “Is that Romanoff’s?”

The Winter Soldier cuts him with a curt look. It manifests itself as an adorable pout.

“Yes” He answers. “Any other questions?”

Rumlow falls behind him easily.

“No sir.”

“Time to go.”

The Winter Soldier takes them to an elevator shaft made for those in command who think it too pedestrian to take the stairs. Strategically, stairs are better. Less chance of falling to their deaths or getting crushed by a descending lift. There is also less possibility of having a dynamite chucked at them. The helicarrier might be new but Hydra took rats seriously.

“That’s pretty damned far.” Rumlow comments, sacrificing a knife and listening for its landing.

“Eighty-three feet.” The Winter Soldier points out in the interests of accuracy. “It’s the fastest way.”

Rogers squints down at the pitch, broken occasionally by emergency lights.

“Anyone bring rope?”

“Some boy scout you are.” Rumlow mocks.

Amused, the Winter Soldier unveils two grappling guns from around his waist. Without the extra padding, he looks even smaller, younger. Rumlow would venture to guess at best, he is twelve. Maybe thirteen.

Rogers looks aggrieved.

“I am going to have a talk with Fury.”

“You do that.”

Rogers takes one and he takes the other. The Winter Soldier clambers onto his back automatically, barely noticeable if it weren’t for the injuries he received during capture and interrogation. Rollins had tried to keep it light, superficial. But he had to make it look convincing. Shit that bleeds a lot.

The clotted sounds pull at his skin until it feels like he’s about to come apart at the seams. He has a knee digging into his kidneys and can’t be sure it isn’t on purpose.

Judging by the soft groans in the massive hull, Wilson seems to be doing well. Hopefully, he’s not alone because sooner or later the idiots are going to get lucky and he’ll be a sitting duck while he parachutes down to safety. It’s a hell of a thing to be alone at this hour.

They rappel down until they run out of rope. Overhead, the elevator is moving because some idiot decided they were too lazy or too stupid to walk down six levels. On him, Rumlow has enough C4 to punch a hole through the helicarrier and he intends to do just that as Rogers pries open the elevator doors with his super strength, jerking back when a bullet grazes past his nose. They immediately flatten themselves against the wall.

“Status?”

“Bad”

Rumlow swears.

The Winter Soldier glances outside where men have amassed in number to shoot at anyone who dares to take a step across the bridge.

“I have an idea.”

“ _Bucky_ ” Rogers hisses the same time he protests “Sir” because they’ve both been on the wrong end of the Winter Soldier’s ruthlessly brilliant but suicidal tactics enough times to form a fan club. ‘What would the Winter Soldier do?’ had been a popular theme while the man was on ice. Baby Hansen lived by it and died by it. Rumlow is reluctant to repeat the same. He’s already down one miracle trying to keep James alive.

“We’re on the clock.” The Winter Soldier reminds them, steel threading his young voice. “If you two don’t have better ideas, let me do my job.” He holds out a hand. “The shield”.

Rogers grudgingly hands it over.

“Be _careful_.”

“Always am punk.”

To Rumlow, he says “Cover me.”

The C4 is timed at three minutes. As soon as the doors open, the Winter Soldier launches himself across the ramp like a champion bobsleigher. Only three men are guarding the narrow chokehold of the relay panel and they all miss. Flattened against Cap’s shield, the Winter Soldier flips himself over at the very last second and lets the momentum slam the disk into someone’s face.

“Go, GO!”

The Winter Soldier is deadly in his efficiency. He garrotes one man and sticks a knife in the neck of another. Arching his back to avoid the spray of arterial blood, he kicks the agent in the line of fire.

Rumlow skids to a stop beside him.

“Captain!”

“Steve!”

There’s Kevlar woven into the armor and no bullet is going to take Captain America down that easy. But he trips when his ankle goes out from under him, falling hard on his knees. The ramp rattles from under them as enterprising snipers line up to take the shot. The Winter Soldier takes up the shield.

The Winter Soldier throws the shield like he is made for it. It ricochets off a sniper’s head, hits the rails and knocks another off the rafters. The man lets out a bloodcurdling scream before smashing against the glass like an egg. Rogers raises his hand and the shield returns to its rightful owner. It also leaves the Winter Soldier wide open for someone else to take aim and fire.

He... lets out a faint noise of protest. There is a small hole in his chest when he looks, a tiny thing like his jacket got snagged on a branch and ripped. His hand comes up to cover the place over his heart. Only when blood pours down the seat of his pants does Rumlow realize the Winter Soldier’s been shot.

It’s a kneejerk reaction to grab him before he falls. But his fingers clutch at an empty space, pressing into liquid pulpiness. “ _Jesus_ ” Rumlow gasps, trying to hold the fragile body together. He chokes on bile when spinal nerves spill out like skinny strands of spaghetti at his feet. “ _Jesus fucking_ —“

The C4 detonates.

His ears ring hollow as he strains his eyes, trying to pick out the familiar cant of the Winter Soldier’s ribs and jawline. He can’t see any of it.

“ _BUCKY_!”

James struggles to breathe.

Rumlow feels nothing. He was pissed when the scientists screwed up, resigned when the kid pulled little orphan Annie. Furious that someone hurt him, horrified the kid ever thought he deserved it. He felt happy that the kid trusted him, willingly hugged him, come after him weighing maybe eighty pounds soaking wet.

He is a fucking idiot. Fuck Fury and his paranoia, Rumlow should have sent him back. The Winter Soldier may be the world’s greatest assassin but he is a child, he’s only a boy, he is James. And at that moment Rumlow feels nothing.

“Go” James gurgles faintly. He turns his head, eyes the color of glass. They crinkle when he sees Rogers. “ _Go_ ”

What does the Winter Soldier remember?

He remembers the importance of a mission, the probability of success, escape routes, the faces in the crosshairs. But what does James remember? How much of what he remember is real? How much of it is James and how much of it the soldier? What does Rogers remember? Does what he remember negate what Rumlow knows?

“Not without you!” Rogers roars, taking off his helmet. He brushes the limp brown strands away from his face. “Not without you.”

As the dust settles, he becomes aware that they are not alone. Cut off one and two will take place, that’s the Hydra motto. And like the leviathan monster from the old they emerge from the smoke, a hundred strong.

“The mission.” James coughs.

Rogers shakes his head in a negative. Shakily, he hands Rumlow the chip.

“Do it. I... I’ll stay with him.”

Between the two of them, he is the only one who is thinking straight. Rogers is on his knees, protecting James with his own body. He doesn’t even try to grab his shield.

It should be the other way around—he thinks. The Winter Soldier is a myth, a ghost among ghosts. He can’t think that the Winter Soldier will die so he does not. The rapidly paling corpse under Rogers cannot be James because he wills it not to be.

The panel slides open with a soft whirl, the only thing that’s gone right in this shitty, abso-fucking-lutely shitty mission of theirs. He’s alone this time, without a team, without someone watching his back. But the Winter Soldier taught them well. He taught them to survive. And James, he gave him something too. The strength to go on.

“It’s done!” He yells to Rogers.

The Helicarrier stops its ascent. Snagged by gravity, the metal groans as it reverses position, guns rotating toward the loading deck below. Missiles punch through the keel and shatter the glass. Some survive the fall. Most don’t.

Air whips past them as pieces of wreckage plunge into the Potomac. Rogers has a firm grip on his best-friend-turned-assassin-turned-child. Blood snakes down from his nose. “I can’t find a pulse!” He yells hoarsely, shaking off the bullet in his ribs and back like it’s nothing. “He...”

Rumlow read once that men only cry three times in their lifetime. Once when they’re born, second when his parents die and the third he can’t remember. He thinks the third might be this. In Arlington, he saw Striker cry. Funeral for junior, real pretty, Pierce even gave a speech. Who would cry for the older man now that he was gone?

Cooper will, he thinks, because Cooper is sentimental like that. Maybe he’ll round up his twin brother, Rollins, Kirkland and their entire team to watch over their graves like ugly gargoyles.

He ignores the twinge in his hips as he crouches beside the other man.

“Cap” He says when the other man doesn’t respond. “We have to go.”

The helicarrier flags as though in agreement, shedding metal over the Potomac like a cat in spring.

Rogers denies him once more.

“He won’t survive.”

“He’s already _dead_.”

The other man lashes out, his fist catching Rumlow on the side of his chin. He missed but he hits like a fucking train wreck. His mouth throbbing, he grits out “Loki’s staff. It’s temporary.” Rogers looks up with haunted eyes. Foreign hope blooming in the blue. “He’ll come back.” He spits out blood. “But not if his body’s gone.”

“Okay” Cap says finally, “okay, okay, let me just.” He trembles when he gathers James in his arms. Blood pours out from under the kid’s jacket painting their boots red, red, and red.

“On three” Rumlow orders.

A burning strut falls towards them.

“Three!”

They jump in the river.

+++

He burns. The right side of his face feels like charred meat but he doesn’t know when that happened, only that it hurts like a motherfucker and for fucking a river, the Potomac is fast. It’s strong and he’s having trouble keeping afloat.

Rumlow looks to his right where Rogers breaches the surface, dragging James behind him like a lifeless doll.

“Help me” He pants and Rumlow holds the boy in his arms perhaps for the last time as Rogers takes a breath and stretches out, trusting buoyancy to keep him from drowning as he hugs James on his stomach. James, heart stopped, dead, has his head tilted up to the sky.

It’s a beautiful day. A day he and the STRIKE team might have had a private barbeque on the rooftop. There is a tradition that they drink a shot for every team member they lost. They drink for Winter Soldier every time.

“LT” Rumlow huffs, using the old moniker Hansen’s son had for the Winter Soldier. “James” He says. “You asked me a question. Sorry it took me so long but I finally have an answer.”

James makes no reply, no indication he’s heard. Rogers swims faster, coughing when the river water gets in his mouth. One of them is hard enough to knock James askew. Rumlow pushes him back on. The kid is cold.

“You asked me what made you different from others.” He takes another watery breath. “It’s because, I know you are. All of us, everyone of us were fuckups. Fuckups who couldn’t admit that we were fuckups. Basket cases who spent more time cowering under the covers before Hydra picked us up.”

Rumlow struggles, caught up in an swell that forces him under. He splutters as he gets back up.

“You gave us a second chance LT. You made sure that we’d be alive to see another day. Another day that maybe, we would make our own choices.”

He can see the shoreline.  

“Hansen got out boss. He’s in a happier place. Cooper’s in CIA now. That’s what makes you different. LT. I don’t know if you can hear me but. You’re a good man. So please. I kept my promise. Please stay alive.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, one more part. 
> 
> After that I'm done :D


	5. Chapter 5

Guys like Cap, they don’t know pain.

Sure, they’ve had their share of scrapes and bruises. Rumlow bets that at one time or another, even the illustrious Captain America’s had a broken nose to offset his handsome face. But for men like Rogers, pain is just a part of life. Transient and fleeting. Part of growing up. Growing pains.

For most people, pain is a trigger to stop, to accept, to yield. But guys like Cap, they don’t understand. They’ll just barrel through until the pain quits on them instead. They’re the type to deal pain to others. A Hydra commander in a different life. The flipside to the same goddamned coin.

Guys like him, they know pain.

Pain is order, it is discipline. It is the creed he’s followed fifteen years hence. Pain has been his life since the moment he realized he couldn’t sleep without a gun under the pillow, another in easy reach and a knife strapped to his side. But for one blinding moment when Rogers lifts James clear of the Potomac like a river god, water pouring off them both in clear, tea-stained rivulets, he wishes he didn’t know.

He wishes he didn’t know how much it could hurt.

Soft mud sucks repulsively at his chest. In the distance, he sees the helicarrier cleave the Triskelion like a butcher’s knife, sheaves of paper flying into the caustic cloud.

Rumlow imagines Pierce watching from way on top in his glass-and-steel throne, dreaming of a new world order that will never come to pass.

Despite everything, he bears no ill will towards the older man. They had similar goals. People need to be protected. The modern world requires order and for that, it had to suffer.

Guys like them, they know this well.

Rogers takes one step, another, then another and he has no choice but to follow, tethered to both by an invisible thread. Hating himself, hating him, hating everything as he chases the curl of milk, white fingers until they gets eaten up by dirt. Rogers yields to gravity, head bowed, yellow hair falling into his too-blue eyes.

This is grief. No amount of training or practice can prep a man for losing his men, his brothers, his unit, his friends. Rogers sets James down, brushing the earth from his cold cheeks like he is something precious and real, kissing his forehead in benediction when no miracle occurs.

Cap fumbles with the jacket and the torn shirt beneath. He tries, Rumlow tries to stop him. It’s no good—James looks real peaceful but for the slug in his chest, a perfect, round hole smack in the center of his ribs, blood less and clean like someone colored it in.

Rogers rubs at the spot as though he can’t believe it. _He_ can’t believe it. Why is it taking so long? Why isn’t the kid getting better?

What if he is wrong?

“Come on kid.” He drops down next to them, groping for a pulse. “Show me those blue peepers.”

Rogers coughs and laughs and coughs again.

“Everyone loved his eyes.”

They did. There was something about them.

He swallows.

“We need to move.”

“No”

“It’s what he would have wanted.”

“You don’t know that.”

Doesn’t he?

What does the Winter Soldier remember? A series of lies constructed on top of another because he was never real. Once upon a time, there was a man who died over and over and over again to be remade over and over and over again. One of them had been his friend. He thinks this is what that friend would have wanted.

“Cap—“

Rogers shakes his head.

“I won’t leave him.”

“Okay” He says shakily, sinking into the dirt. “Okay.”

He stays, he tells himself, because it’s easier. It’s much easier to stay. Much easier to focus on his breathing instead of the knife in his stomach, slicing him open with every breath James does not take. Pain is order, it is discipline and it is life.

Rumlow thinks that he might be dying.

“Over here!” Someone shouts.

“We found them!”

Men stomp through the shallow woods. He tenses immediately, body coiling in a fight or flight response that tracks stars beneath his eyelids because that fucking hurt. This is the pain he knows well, the kind that sharpens his focus and propels him to his feet.

The only weapons he’s got on him are his eskrima sticks.

James is dead and he does not care.

He doesn’t spare Rogers a second glance. Doesn’t have to. He already knows how his story will end.

Pain will bring order so he turns to pain; the stretch of cuts barely clotted and burns down the side of his face. He knows the man who breaks cover through the finely-veined leaves, fingers wrapped around a bow rather than the traditional assault rifle, blond hair catching sunlight like a halo around his head. Recognition flickers through the fierce blue eyes but it’s too late. Rumlow now knows the target of his ire, the man whom Fury sent to retrieve James. No, not James. The Winter Soldier.

Several agents shout in alarm when he tackles Barton into the dirt, rolling them out of reach. An elbow to his stomach punches the oxygen from his lungs but he wraps an arm around the other man’s throat, shoving the shock end under his jaws and holding the fuck on.

The current plays merry hell with his muscle and he nearly bites his tongue in half. It’s worse than the time he and his team thought it was a great idea to drop a stick of dynamite inside a mineshaft. Or when Rollins got too frisky with the wrong native girl.

Barton stumbles around, stunned stupid like a pig at a slaughter house. He doesn’t resist when Rumlow bowls him over and strikes him across his face, over and over and missing half the time because the bastard won’t lay still, appearing in twos and threes like it’s the fucking happy hour to his dazzled eyes.

His goal is not to win. No, it’s far too fucking late for that.

But he can make this hurt. He will make this hurt.

He will make this hurt as much as he hurts.

“There’s a kid over here!”

Rogers reacts violently when one of they try to pull him away. Idiots. He sees a body flying into the river before Barton pins him. “Fuck! Stay! Stay the fuck down!” Barton snarls before Rumlow gets him in the eye with a sucker punch. “I’ve got him! Stop! Steve! It’s me!”

There is a satisfying crunch as the other man’s nose gives way against his skull. By then, men have swarmed him. He sees Rogers fall.

He doesn’t see James.

+++

They put him in a cell, a six-by-six container box with a working bucket, two chairs and a table in the middle. He is mildly assured that this is not a hospital. Rumlow hates hospitals, hates the way they look, taste and smell like someone’s covered up a stiff under the mattress.

He will duct tape and staple his wounds before putting himself under Hippocrates’ tender mercies. Out in the field, Cooper has used everything from hot glue gun to cling wrap to stop them from bleeding out. He has more than once threatened and had tranqued a patient and tied them to bed. On one memorable occasion, Rollins gave him shit about bondage and woke up cuffed to the patient for the recovery period.

It had been the longest week of his life.

Rumlow picks at the bandage around his face, the haphazard layer of gauze and plaster that stinks of blood and antiseptic. He got the good stuff—he can’t feel a thing. He turns over his wrist and reads the writing at the base of his thumb.

_red_

It’s not over yet.

“You look like shit.”

This is a pleasant surprise. The door closes behind the other man with a steep groan. Rumlow hears additional locks being turned in place—an analogue cage made just for him. After Project Insight, it’s probably wise. It’s open season on rats cross agencies but they won’t catch all of them. Not even with Fury and his guard dogs helping from the shadows. Hydra is everywhere.

He wets his lips.

“You should see the other guy.”

Cooper looks like he’s been run over twice, missed an exfil before realizing that it wasn’t worth it and started running for the border. In his hands, he has a fresh pot of coffee and a thick file with a pen sticking out from the corner. Setting it aside, he rolls up his stained cuffs and runs a hand through his tumble-dried hair.

“I did.” The man says, inhaling coffee straight from the pot. Rumlow could never figure out how the other man did it. Whether he enjoyed the blusters around his mouth or if it was a private sort of pain. “I’ve never seen Barton so spittin’ mad. The hell’s the matter with you man—picking a fight with an Avenger?”

“Barton’s hands are hardly clean.” He points out.

Cooper curls his lips.

“Barton, saved the world.”

“So did I.”

“Debatable” The other man snorts, slouching uncomfortably in his plastic chair. “The brass on Capitol Hill is trying to decide if Shield did more good than bad and guess what? The only people fit to trial are Hill, Romanoff, Rollins and some flyboy they picked up off the streets and I damn-guarantee the fall out won’t be pretty. You’re lucky I _found_ Zola’s lab because that got me enough pull to be picked for cleaning duty. Thanks a lot asshole.”

Rumlow ignores him knowing that it’s just Cooper’s way of thanking god and baby Jesus for saving him from crying over another grave.

“What happened?”

Cooper shrugs.

“Shield is gone.”

“Gone?” He asks sharply.

“Gone” Cooper confirms, spreading his palms as though to verify his claim. “CIA, NSA, FBI, MI6, NRS, FSB, they’re going through agents faster than toilet paper. All of them want answers. I just got to you first.”

“Am I being charged?”

“Not yet. You’re one of the good guys now.” And the flash of teeth tells Rumlow what Cooper really thinks of that. “Good being relative.”

“Then I’ve got nothing to say.”

“No you wouldn’t.” The other man says agreeably, cracking open the file. His photo is on top and his fingerprints. Down to the small knick on his left ring finger. “See according to this, you’re dead.”

Rumlow has known Cooper for a long time. They’re similar enough in age to be good friends. Cooper’s always had a good head on his shoulder, too smart to be on the team. Too passionate for anything else until he wised up and left.

They have a code in place, a series of gestures and tells only their team would know. An interpretive dance of knuckle cracking and typical dickish behavior that would get them banned from polite society but translates into matters of life or death. Right now, Cooper is pleading for him to listen and that makes him nervous. Cooper is a lot like him. He doesn’t ask.

“I’m going to offer you a deal.” He says, sliding him a pen and a blank sheet of paper. “It’s your choice if you take it or not.”

“You don’t have anything I want.”

“I don’t have to.” Cooper counters. “You’re trapped in here. And I already know the first question.”

He asks anyway.

“How is he?”

“Funny story actually.” The other man starts. “He ended up in the morgue. Imagine the coroner’s surprise when he started breathing again.”

“He’s alive?” Rumlow rasps. “Is he alright?”

“That” The other man drawls, knowing that he’s caught hook, line and sinker. “Costs extra.”

“I’m listening.”

“Are you?” Cooper’s eyes are cutting, flinty green instead of the usual blend of rust and honey. “Because you’re going to have to listen real good for the next part. _Walk away_.”

“What?”

The other man bulldozes over him as though he hadn’t heard. “I can get you a new ID, a new job, a new life, fine. But you’re going to have to make a choice Bones. The old life is gone. Let the pain go.”

Rumlow closes himself off. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Dammit man, this isn’t just your sterling personality on the line. It’s your fucking _life_. You got Winter out. You can’t tell me you haven’t thought about what happens after.”

For the longest time, they don’t speak. He doesn’t even have a watch to keep track of, only Cooper’s rhythmic beating against the coffee pot, the shine of his ring on his right hand. Cooper did good for a stone-cold killer with filleting prisoners as a skillset.

Rumlow drags the paper towards himself and writes on it. The other man watches with a wary eye.

“What’s this?” He asks, reading off the top.

“Insurance. For your CIA friends.” Rumlow answers unflinchingly. “I want to see him.”

+++

Their reunion is anticlimactic. James is hooked up to a shit ton of wires—all of which, Cooper assures him is necessary—mostly because they can’t feed him fast enough. The kid still looks like a famine victim from Eastern Europe, all skin and bones, pale flesh pulled taut like a drum. He still has both arms. Still James, still the stupid little shit who followed him on a goddamned suicide mission.

James is alive. That’s good enough. Pain is transient and it will fade. It always does. That’s why it must be constant.

Rumlow leans over and hugs him.

The kid squeaks in surprise, protesting that he’s too old for hugs.

Somewhere in the middle, Cooper springs Kirkland from guard duty and drags him out the door. Reunions later. He unsticks James from his chest.

“What the fuck were you thinking!?”

James cringes and Rumlow breathes through his mouth, trying to rein in his temper.

“Shit kid, you should have stayed. Why didn’t you stay?”

“You needed someone to watch your back.” James replies in a small voice, all of sixteen, his face still clean and eyes wide and blue. There’s a hole in his back that’s going away slowly. James died before being brought back to life. A fucking miracle kid. He sinks into a chair.

“And who was going to watch yours?” He asks, the image of blood and gore still fresh in his mind like a splash of color across a blank canvas, the warmth of body scalding against his palms. Rumlow flexes his fingers and wiggles them to remind himself they are clean. He’s never minded blood before but he suddenly feels the need to plunge his hands in acid just to wash the stickiness off.

“You’re mad.” James says. “Why?”

“Because you died.” Rumlow snarls, thinking what an unbelievably stupid question that is. “Do you even understand dying?”

“I’m not stupid.” James says, all affront. “I just don’t know why it’s such a big deal. I came back. I...”

Rumlow explains it to him in the only way he knows how.

“How would you feel if Steve had died?”

James falls silent.

His hands are shaking.

+++

“You should get this cut.” Rumlow says a little while later, fiddling with the kid’s hair.

“Don’t, I kind of like it.”

The nurse comes around and wastes time cooing at the sixteen-year-old instead of doing her job. She thinks he's the kid's dad. Says James has ‘killer eyes’ and warns him that he’ll have girls lining up around the block like it’s something to be proud of.

James grabs his wrist and keeps him there until she goes away. Rumlow lets out a breath he didn’t know he had been holding and wonders where the fuck the slackers went if they’re taking this long to grab a bite to eat.

He clears his throat.

“What happened. I think you should talk to someone about that.” His heart sinks when the kid’s expressions shutters. “It...” he’s never had this much trouble with words before the boy came along. Even with a language barrier, he could still point and grunt. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“I remember it.” James says grimly, twisting the sheets around his fingers. “And I keep asking myself, why didn’t I fight back? I knew how. I should have... done something.”

Rumlow grimaces, recognizing the words for his own.

“You were practically a baby.” He reminds him.

James smiles back depreciatingly. “Was I?”

What does the Winter Soldier remember? By now, everything. But what the Winter Soldier doesn’t know, can’t have known is uncertainty, doubts, fear, vulnerability. Things that make them human. The Winter Soldier wasn’t a real person, he was a part of one, a good chunk of it lovingly sculpted through marvels of engineering and brute force. James is a real person. Rumlow grabs his hand and squeezes until he turns with a look.

He shrugs and drops his chin to his chest, fringes of long brown hair hiding his face.

“I’ll think about it.”

“Good” Rumlow says simply and tucks his hair back. “Too bad, the butterfly was growing on me.”

James offers him a tentative smile.

+++

“Cap’s awake.”

James hums, curling protectively around his poptarts. The crumbs are everywhere. The kid’s going to get itchy real soon.

“Want to go see him?”

He shakes his head in a definite no, biting around the foil just to squeeze the sugar-laden crap in his mouth.

“Why the hell not?” Rumlow demands, burst of irrational jealousy needling his guts. He snatches the bag from James’ hand and splits it wide open for him to eat. James stares at him as though trying to figure out what to say. “What?”

“I don’t. He doesn’t need me.”

Rumlow did not dump fifteen years down the drain to play second best to the kid’s growing empathy. He clenches the arm rests, counting down from ten. His face is starting to itch. Maybe the bandages need to be changed. He has half a mind to track down Cooper and ask him for help.

Fucking hospitals, this was a bad idea.

And the kid must be psychic because the next thing out of his mouth is “nobody needs a crippled” the syllables are harsh, like they’re being scratched out of his voice box and beating his throat to hell and back. “ _Assassin_ looking after them.”

“Lucky me” Rumlow says.

He’s an idiot. Even before he spits out the last word, he knows he's being an idiot.

James’ eyes are burning, feverish, the color of glass, frost and snow, glowing incandescent in the sterile florescent lights.

“I remember him.” The kid says. “But I remembered you.”

The words are like a balm and something inside of him slots back into place, fixed before he ever knew it was broken.

“I remember you too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This should have been up a week ago but I finally finished it! 
> 
> *fistpump* 
> 
> I scrapped and rewrote this three times but I'm happy with it. For now. 
> 
> This story was never meant to go over 10k+ so I hope you guys all enjoyed the additional 15k of Rumlow monologuing himself into being the good guy for once. It's way, way canon divergence at this point but I hope I did the characters justice. Thank you all for the hits, the kudos, the comments. You guys rock <3


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